the difference knowing makes
by Phoenix Satori
Summary: The oft-told tale of the Beauty and the Freeloading-Homicidal-Jerkface. ::Bulma/Vegeta::
1. beautiful friendship material

i won't lie to you: this fic is actually just a zillion or so pages of DBZ vignettes i'm attempting to string together with something resembling a Plot. i'm going to try to avoid making the b/v the Means as well as the Ends, but who knows what will actually happen. i'm really just here for the cake.

the events of the first couple chapters take place *right* after bulma invites vegeta and the nameks to stay at her place. after that, we'll get android-saga-licious and The Twist will rear its twisty little head.

[you will discover i have liberally employed elements of the anime, the manga, and Vejiitasei Ascendant -which as far as I'm concerned is Second Canon; i own none of them.]

* * *

**chapter one**

Bulma regrets inviting the Prince of Saiyans to live at Capsule Corp almost immediately.

Her mother manages an astonishing forty-five minutes dogging the terror-captivated Prince's heels on the tour of the grounds, promising him sweets and lavishing him with undeserved praise, before he reaches the end of what has to be the shortest fuse in nine galaxies and _explodes_ at her intrusive –if well-meaning—parent. His diatribe is brief –though scathing—the general, furious undertone clear enough even if roughly half of it comes out in some throaty, vaguely halting language she's pretty sure she's never heard before.

Unsurprisingly, her mother only titters in girlish delight and lightly taps the notoriously homicidal alien on the cheek while she and the Namekians look on, rapt and horrified. Even Piccolo seems disturbed.

"Oh, my! What a high-spirited young man!" Bulma wants very much to advise her mother to please _not _provoke the scary-powerful serial killer, but recognizes exasperatedly the futility of such an exercise.

"Mom," she begins, hoping to head off disaster by way of cunning distraction, "would you mind running in and setting the dom-bots on the task of pouring fifty or so pitchers of lemonade for our guests? They must be thirsty." Or…maybe not so much 'cunning' as 'simple and obvious.' "I'll hang back and call dad, and we'll brief everybody on security procedures now that we've finished showing them around." It's subtle, but Bulma, peripherally keeping tabs on the flustered Prince, catches the minute slackening of his shoulders, sharp tension ebbing when her mother nods emphatically at the suggestion and nimbly vacates his bubble.

Approvingly, "What a thoughtful idea, dear!" To her right, Piccolo makes an irritated 'tch'-ing noise under his breath.

"Water would be more appropriate." He informs them sourly, as though it disgruntles him to speak on the subject of his people's eating habits.

She considers him for a quiet interval, this alien who's never been quite so alien as this moment, when he's amongst his kin and hers –no longer an enemy. She smoothly changes the order.

"Water, then." Bulma tilts her mother a grin, who cheerfully returns the gesture and starts toward the house. "Thanks, mom." Vegeta re-stiffens when she focuses her full attentions on him. "I know she's a bit much, Vegeta, but she means well."

"That insipid creature can mean whatever the hell she wants, so long as it's nowhere near _me_."

Venomously,

"That 'insipid creature' is my _mother_, tightwad." A breath's consideration has her setting her ire down to a slow simmer, a mantra-style reminder spooling around in her brain, advising her to Proceed with Caution, to at the very least make overtures of civility in the interest of keeping everyone assembled alive and in one piece. Huffing, "You could afford to be civil to her, Vegeta; this's _her_ home you're about to be sharing, too. I'd say chances are high she's gonna spoil you rotten as it is," she looks briefly, grimly resigned, "so an effort _not_ to bite her head off when she's only being friendly would be appreciated." As added incentive, "You should also know, monkey man, mom and I—and a team of _exquisitely_-crafted mechanical chefs—are pretty much in charge of your food for the foreseeable future." She _oozes_ affability. "Buttering us up may be in your stomach's best interest." He scowls at her. Or anyway, he scowls at her _harder_.

"Make no mistake, woman; you cannot pin me with your petty manipulations in the already-thin guise of obligation. Deny me access to suitable provisions and I will only have to find something to kill and eat _myself_."

_Great_, she muses; _and so the threats begin_. _Not exactly 'beautiful friendship' material, is he_?

Graciously, she feels, she decides to let the issue drop. Later, however, she's planning to Strongly Advise him against permanently fucking up the ecosystem by slaughtering every prey animal in a thousand-mile radius –on pain of Death, Facilitated by Science.

* * *

Mom's been chastising him for the better part of the trip home, horrified to learn he'd lost _all_ of his text books and assignments on the trip, furious at him for having been gone so long (-and without _calling_!), troubled to think what awful, terrible things he must've seen on that frightful planet so very, very far away from her, only just right after she'd gotten him back from the 'fiendish clutches of that green devil' –when suddenly she pauses, voice shaking to a halt.

Her foot eases on the pedal, and the vehicle slows its breakneck pace. Her anger thaws, transformed by sudden, heavy sadness; with hard eyes and a child's heart, he watches his mother steel herself against despair.

At length,

"I s'ppose your dad'll be a while comin' home?" The ring of perfect certainty in the question is unmistakable; there's irritation, grief in the understanding that the man they love is dead, and no doubt in her mind he'll eventually return.

In the habit of the childhood he feels almost behind him now, Gohan reaches across the seat to catch his fingers in her skirt.

* * *

His Royal Jerkface's manners do not improve as the morning wears on.

While Bulma and her father lead the weary Namekians through the necessary Standard Operating Procedures of the day-to-day (listing through security clearances, access codes, the fundamentals of capsule technology, etc.), Vegeta somewhat gleefully fits in another smug-flippant reminder of the single-handed devastation he'd wrought on one of their villages back home, and in a surprise burst of Righteous Fury, she rounds on the jackass and proceeds to lay down The Law, emphasizing the importance of Not Being an Enormous Prick to the already-beleaguered pacifists, especially while he's a _guest_ in her home, because damn it there are _rules_ and he's got to freaking _respect_ them if he plans on staying here for any length of time.

Bulma's just gotten to the part of her sermon where she's vowing retribution of the unexpected, exploding variety if he continues to terrorize these kindly, peace-loving people, drawing stares of open amazement from several and gaping, frantic alarm from others –when she finds herself abruptly mute on the receiving end of an agitated, growling snarl.

Bulma reflects abstractedly that it's been a long, long while since anyone'd full-out _growled_ at her, and as she has no way of knowing just how familiar she's to become with this behavior in the coming weeks, she can't help the instinctive flinch backward at the startling sound, rolling steadily, loud and low in his throat.

She also can't help but to notice he seems _pleased_ with this reaction, his lip curling up into an unpleasant smirk even as the growl tapers to a soft rumble in his chest. It is both odd and very, very disturbing how…_subdued_ she feels.

Clearing her throat,

"Anyway," Bulma snaps, recovering, "stop salting wounds, dammit. You're an evil jerk and you shun happiness –we _get it_ _already_; there's no need to make everyone _else_ miserable, too." She has, by this point, nearly entirely forgotten her earlier wariness of inciting Vegeta to murderous rages, caught up as she is in one of her own.

Dende, stunned and silent on the sidelines thus far, has obviously been keeping better tabs.

"Miss Bulma." It's a warning, diffident though...weirdly grave, entirely too _serious_ for such a little guy. At this age, Son-kun was running around the world, hopping from one adventure to the next, living carefree and half-wild and having the time of his life. Her heart aches for this kid, and for Goku's little boy –for the violence they've been made to suffer so young.

Gazing placidly back at the feral-looking Saiyan, she blows out a quick breath and pastes on a hard smile.

"Don't worry, kiddo. We're good." When it seems like Vegeta's about to insist something quite the opposite is true, and then maybe decapitate her to illustrate his point, "I _might've _gone a bit far. I'm sorry." His rage melts gradually into something more on the order of frustrated bewilderment, and she turns back to the Namekians, spotting Piccolo along the fringe of the group, watchful. "What say we take a break? Mom's probably got the refreshments ready by now, and I for one, am parched." She pivots and indicates everyone should follow her, deliberately avoiding the cross sneer of the unhappiest bastard in the entire goddamn universe.

* * *

A hand's breadth shorter than himself and ribbon slim, the shrieking native is all pale contours and vibrant wrath, a spill of blue hair and the flash of too-bright eyes, all neatly compressed into one unconscionably defiant little package.

He cannot comprehend the god-awful female or any of her consistently confounding –and often shrill—behaviors; neither can he reconcile this sharp-tongued harpy with the vapid, cowering creature he'd encountered on Namek. Gone is the stammering dread; missing, too, the rich scent of terror and the adrenaline-giddy hammer of her pulse, replaced instead by appalling impudence and the stink of shameless confidence. As though he were now somehow _less_ likely to end her life at whim than before. (Which, for the record, is pure foolishness.)

It doesn't take him long to decide he can't stand her, or to begin questioning his earlier decision to accept her offer of lodging –even if only as the temporary means to a violent, bloody end.

Ever mindful of Knowing Thy Enemy, Vegeta watches her distribute refreshments with her obnoxious mother, genial smiles and light banter for all –except the Earth-Namekian, for whom she wears a milder expression –not unfriendly, necessarily, though undeniably a good deal less…open.

"Don't take this the wrong way or anything, Piccolo, but I'm kinda surprised you're still here. I'd've figured you'd be the first to split." From across the crowd and over the quiet ripples of conversation, Vegeta hears her clearly, absently annoyed when the faintest whiff of something-not-unlike _fear_ wafts through the air, inspired in her by this green freak whose power level his own unquestionably dwarfs.

This woman makes no fucking sense.

"Trust me, I'm not staying for _me_." Piccolo assures her cryptically.

"…what the heck does that even mean?" The oversized plant shows her one pearly fang, grinning nastily while she remains carefully stoic to bely the eclectic assortment of tells she exhibits, which reveal that her instincts are calling loudly for her to flee in terror. She sets a hand against her hip and levels her gaze at the taller alien, affecting impassivity. "Well, whatever; guess it's really none of my business in the first place. Anyway, you're welcome to stay as long as you like, so long as you promise not to deliberately provoke Prince Hothead over there into any sort of blowing-things-up competition or…you know, other destructive-type activities." The Earth warrior brusquely inclines his head, silently consenting, and as the woman scurries off, obviously glad to be doing so, he considers the Namekian in a new light.

Being still new to the whole 'sixth sense' business, Vegeta has no skill for discerning the finer expressions of an opponent's ki; relative power levels, yes, the occasional distinguishing glimmer of a familiar individual's aura, sure, but nuances are generally beyond him.

Nevertheless, he has sensed, from near the first moment of their meeting, something tellingly _familiar _in the hybrid brat's pet Namekian; at last, he identifies the source of his intuition, sprung from an affinity by far more fundamental than a shared disposition –this one, too, has known iniquity. Has reveled in it.

How long, he wonders, has the caped shrubbery been on Kakarrot's side? And how tenuous are the ties keeping him there?

Before he can consider the matter further, the blue of the woman's hair catches his eye; she approaches him with a petulant air about her, cradling a beverage in her hands.

She holds the cup out for him, stiffly, drawing no nearer to him than she absolutely needs to be to make her offering. "Here."

Despite his better judgment, cautioning him to mistrust the intentions of this woman who has every reason in the world to want him suffering or dead, he accepts the drink, nudging it out of her fingers and pulling it to his lips with hardly a thought.

"Piccolo's planning to stay for a while, too, I think, and I've already asked him to pretend for a while that violence _isn't _the answer to Every Single Problem, and I'll warn you now, too: you guys start something here and I'll throw you both to the curb so fast your heads'll spin." The claim is ridiculous, of course; the woman clearly has no capacity for delivering on such a threat. Still, she seems perfectly earnest, and he finds himself weighing the possibility she is somehow more than she seems –which is laughably weak and almost certainly deranged. The notion passes as quickly as it occurs, and he resumes being annoyed at virtually everything about her. "Although," she _winks_ at him –_again_, "maybe you should give each other a chance; you've both got that Angry Brooding Villain thing going on –maybe you two'll hit it off and be best buds." When she appears to realize she's trying his patience with her unceasing inanity, "Or…not. Look, mom and dad're gonna finish up here and lead the Namekians back to the terrarium to start setting up, and _you_ can follow _me_ to the main compound, where you'll be staying."

They had by-passed the main compound earlier in the afternoon, during the 'tour' portion of the entertainment. The woman had identified it then as the building where she and her insane parents reside. Gradually, the thought connects itself with the understanding that he's going to be sharing quarters with these three lunatic Earthers. The idea is not an appealing one. He's on the verge of 'sharing' this opinion when she adds,

"We thought it'd be easier to keep you where the food's gonna be, since I figure, like Son-kun, you'll be eating twelve times your own body weight a day. The main compound's the one with the biggest kitchen and the most domestic units; it just made sense."

…perhaps he can suffer the proximity, after all.

Unhappily, he steps into rhythm behind her.

* * *

Nail is becoming a problem.

For the most part, in the aftermath of the anticipated period of adjustment, he can't even feel his stranger-kin's presence; the mesh is too finely-woven, so to speak, and –as promised—the Demon King is still essentially himself.

…except for those disconcerting moments where he finds himself abruptly –_displaced_— in his own damn mind, as though he's been psychically sucker-punched, resurfacing an instant later only to find himself (inexplicably, outrageously) offering words of comfort, extending a casual touch of solidarity or reassurance, or even –worst of all— _smiling_, most often at the little runt Gohan and Baldie befriended on Namek, for whom his shiny new Alter Ego apparently has a soft spot, though he's gradually realizing the warm-fuzzies for the sproutling are just the tip of the iceberg; more recently, he's stumbled across untoward _fondnesses_ for other members of his family-tribe, insightful impressions of people he's never met filtered through a full compendium of personal histories not his own. Every once in a while, he even finds himself performing some simple show of rote deference toward the newly-appointed Eldest Namekian. Piccolo decides _this_, especially, is a **farce.**

Knowing he's not the source of all these nauseating, touchy-feely behaviors is one thing; effectively suppressing the unconscious emotional impulses of the guy quite literally _in his head_, separating them from his inventory of behaviors befitting earth's future Demon Overlord –that whole process is turning out to be kind of a bitch.

And that's not even taking into account the once or twice now Nail's _deliberately_ volleyed some insidious coercion at Piccolo, threading some persuasion or other so delicately into the textures of his mind that he's realizing it's impossible to tell anymore where his volition begins and ends.

Case in point:

"Piccolo, brother, will you stay with us? We would be elated if you wished to learn the lifeways of the people, the family you've never known, and have nevertheless fought so fiercely to defend." The Elders' faces wrinkle (further) with mirth.

He can admit an objective, intellectual curiosity in the culture of the species that spawned him; knowledge of his heritage, after all, can only enhance knowledge of himself, and perhaps open paths to still greater power. Beyond that, his interest in the pacifist customs of his (largely) sedentary relatives wanes quickly.

…which means the suddenly powerful idea that he _cannot abandon his people now, when their destinies have altered so drastically, when they need him __**most**_–probably hadn't started with _him_. But the sentiment, once engineered, _refuses_ to be destroyed.

He curtly explains to them what he will, moments later, repeat in a more or less unaltered (rude, non-answering) fashion to Goku's loud, blue friend right before _she_ offers to let him stay:

"Guess _I_ don't really have a choice." He grumbles, Not Responding to the mystified looks the assembled Elders cast at one another.

The runt, though –_Dende_, some increasingly obnoxious, subconscious part of him amends— beams up at him, broadcasting all sorts of happy-sunshine emotions and making him extremely uncomfortable.

What manner of Cosmic Strangeness had culminated in the Demon King collecting toddlers?

* * *

Bulma leans against the doorframe, watching Vegeta's curt perusal of the bedroom, absently imagining all the million-myriad alien accommodations to which he must surely have been privy in the course of his life as an intergalactic mercenary, and mourning for all those million-myriad alien worlds he must surely have habitually destroyed.

She swiftly detours from that avenue of thought, deciding she doesn't need _more_ reasons to think he's an evil-dangerous _assface_. She's got plenty enough as it is, and she should probably be trying to avoid (actively) looking for grounds to antagonize him, anyway, now that they're going to be _living_ together and all…

"Just so you know," she begins, pausing when he pins her with a sharp flick of his eyes, the cut of his profile coldly imperious, "you're, uh, welcome to crash here for as long as you need –on the condition you _behave_ yourself, of course –meaning _no _violent rampages or senseless destruction of people or property, and at least _some_ effort spared to avoid emotionally crippling anybody, especially my parents and employees and our Namekian guests." She realizes even as she says it that the likelihood of Vegeta reforming his much-esteemed Kill Everything ways at her command is…well, not great. Still, she feels compelled to make her opinions regarding his notorious fondness for meting out pain and suffering and death known from the get-go. "Beyond that, all our facilities are available to you for use –except the labs and workshops, which're strictly off-limits. If you've got that same sort of…genetic _aversion_ to science and technology Goku does, you'll probably wanna steer clear of the engineering wings, anyway." She teases light-heartedly. He looks like he's about to start growling again, unless she's wrong, of course, and what he's _actually_ about to do is dissolve her with a well-aimed ki blast; either way, she decides to quit while she's ahead. "Anyway, I'll let you get settled in; I'll be back and forth helping mom and dad move everybody in, so just come find one of us if you need anything." He waits expectantly for her to leave, radiating his anticipation to be rid of her.

Bulma finds that this irks her.

Testily, "Dinner's still a few hours off; if your delicate Saiyan constitution can bear the wait, I'll buzz you when it's ready. Otherwise, we're busy and you can help your own damn self to whatever the hell you can find. If you're even _capable _of preparing food for yourself, that is." She spits at the last, before calmly turning on her heel and walking out, remembering only after she closes the door behind her that she was going to try to _stop_ provoking Vegeta.

* * *

...in hindsight, perhaps advising the alien assassin-for-hire to 'help himself' to 'whatever' had not been the best choice of phrasing.

_Maybe_ two hours had passed between her initial parting with the Prince before she'd found herself confronting him yet again, this time at the far end of the terrarium, where (she'd learned immediately) he'd apparently flash-fried one of her father's beloved saurian pets (the imaginatively-named 'Rexy') for a light evening snack. Far from appearing guilty or repentant, Vegeta, catching sight of her horrified consternation, had instead cleanly separated the animal's head from its trunk with a sickening twist of flesh and muscle and the hard snap of splintered bone. Bulma had promptly swallowed whatever furious tirade she'd been preparing to deliver.

To his credit, she reflects wryly, long after she's fled the scene, he _had_ offered to share. She wonders if the massive, proffered haunch could conceivably be equated to some Saiyan facsimile of contrition.

It's a notion just as quickly smothered; the little Prince doesn't strike her as the sort to apologize for anything –ever. She supposes it's probably safe to assume the gesture's also best _not_ construed as a peace offering; the maddeningly self-satisfied smirk he'd given her as he'd indicated the steaming pile of bloody flesh at his feet went a long way convincing her of that.

Exasperated beyond her limits already –dealing all day with a hundred or so hapless, alien tenants (two among them formerly -still?- Bad Guys determined to subjugate and/or destroy the world) would wear on _anyone_ – Bulma throws herself back into the task of keeping her father well and thoroughly preoccupied in the lab, possibly for the next couple days, hoping if she diverts his attention for long enough, maybe he'll just forget he ever _had_ a building-sized reptile buddy.

"Alright there, kiddo?" Comes her father's mumbling cadence from somewhere in the thick jungle of bundled wires, and it takes her a belated moment to realize she's been sighing –in aggravation, anxiety, and more—a lot the past few minutes.

"Fine, dad." She bats at him cheerily, and steps into the techno-carnage to join him.

_Just trying to figure out what the **hell** I've gotten myself into_ -she keeps to herself.

* * *

'bout time i wrote something dbz, dammit.

[.just in case.]

-to the inimitable JEANNE BURCH,

your fic is at the nexus of my understanding of akira toriyama's world. i've been coming back to both every once in a while for about a decade now, and so find myself frequently getting canon confused with your universe; often, i find myself _preferring_ your version (veggie-kins and zarbon are so bffs). you *get* story-telling, you've a freakish-awesome kung-fu grip on relationship dynamics and dialogue and character development and...i'll stop before this gets embarrassing.

just saying -cheers, many kudos, please finish it someday...?

heeeeeearrrrtss.


	2. a nonsensical progression

i would apologize for the tardiness of this chapter, but in all honesty, this's probably about the pace i'll have new installments ready, due in large part to the demands of Real Life.

so...updates should be expected to occur in approximately one-month intervals; it'll be slow going, for sure, but the chapters should all be relatively long, so hopefully that'll be enough to tide you over while you wait.

meanwhile.

the reviews thus far have inflated my ego to near continent-sized proportions; thankyouthankyouthankyou-smooch.

[call me Disclaimer.]

* * *

The following morning, a bleary-eyed Bulma wobbles on zombie legs into the kitchen and veers automatically for the coffee pot, seeking that sweet, life-giving succor; focus narrowed as it is to a fine, fuzzy-tunneled point, she doesn't even realize he's there.

Until—

"You look like shit, woman." The Prince of all Saiyans deadpans from her kitchen table. She twirls unsteadily on her heels to regard him, fixes the perpetually-agitated mass murderer with a bland look, and then very calmly starts shrieking her head off.

Vegeta lowers his own head, baring his teeth at her in a show of displeasure and irritation, and her usually sharp mind skips blithely along in terror until she trips over that niggling chunk of information reminding her she'd _invited_ His Royal Pain-in-the-Ass into her home. Voluntarily, even.

Because apparently, she is a complete, freaking _moron_.

"Oh, uh," she opens eloquently, scream abruptly choking off, "Hey there, Vegeta." She almost forgets to be sheepish, in this surreal moment that the destroyer of a hundred-hundred worlds is sitting at her kitchen table, for all the world looking as though he means to enjoy such a domestic thing as breakfast with her family.

"Idiot." Vegeta grumbles, tapping at his bicep. (So maybe 'enjoy' isn't quite the word she's looking for.)

She huffs, "Well _excuse me_ for getting _so_ worked up over the guy who tried to torch my entire planet a couple months ago." Disturbingly, he smiles at the reminder, and she willfully suppresses the shiver of apprehension preparing to shake its way out of her. "Jerk." She mutters, for good measure. The grin slides to a scowl in the space of a furrowed brow. _That's more like it_; satisfied, she rounds on him and smiles brightly, skirting the expansive counter to reach the coffee pot.

"When do your servants prepare the morning meal?" He bites out in aggravation, and she suspends her coffee-engineering to spare him a glance over her shoulder.

"First of all, they're my _parents_, Vegeta, not my servants. Maybe you could remember that so I don't have to poison your food when you inevitably try to _treat_ them like slaves." He smirks at her, slow-lazy and smug. Insanely, Bulma finds this devastating. Clearly the product of prolonged sleep deprivation and long weeks' worth of isolation and accrued stress, she rationalizes, whirling back to her abandoned task. "Didn't I ask you yesterday to at least _try_ being considerate? Or at least, not openly cruel?" She feels him considering _her_, and the room steeps briefly in silence.

Finally,

"Answer the question, woman." Having dealt with a hungry Son-kun often enough over the years, Bulma knows precisely what to make of Vegeta's indelicate evasion of the issue-at-hand –namely, that he could give a shit about anything she has to say, and, Moreover, he's only barely listening in the first place. The central issue for a Saiyan at mealtime is, she knows well, the _meal_. Everything else is just unnecessary detail.

If he thinks Bulma Briefs can be cowed into brevity, however, he's about to be severely disappointed.

"Most mornings everybody fends for themselves. There're some domestic robots around here we can program to help us if we choose, but we usually don't need 'em for just the three of us. Sometimes mom cooks for us, too, I guess." He looks as if he's about to reprimand her again for not responding to the Actual Question. Frustration knits at her brow. "Look, I know how much you crazy aliens eat; I _had_ actually meant to have a chat with you about learning to use the dom-bots _yesterday_, except you barbecued my dad's best dino pal and then, golly, it must've just…slipped my mind." He remains unaffected by her pointed censure. Breathing out steadily when all she wants to do is skewer him with something Large and Pointy, "For now, if you can throw together some sort of tentative eating schedule, I'll program the bots to have meals ready by specific times throughout the day. We can do your voice imprint and tutorial later, after I take care of some lab work I've been putting off for two months to gallop off into space and watch all you wacko thugs running around Namek trying to kill each other." Bulma lifts the steaming nectar to her lips, shuddering as the first bitter drop hits her tongue. Feeling substantially more charitable already, "I'll go round a few up to start breakfast in a minute, when the caffeine starts working its magic. Want a cup to tide you over?" She indicates the mug in her hand.

Wrinkling his nose, "It smells foul."

"It tastes even worse." He blinks at her. Shrugging, "You learn to enjoy it."

"Unlikely."

"Suit yourself." Bulma takes another languid pull from her mug, playing up her indulgence for show. "But you don't know what you're missing..."

"Doubtfully anything worthwhile." He bandies, and something in the way he looks at her gives her an uncomfortable sense of double meaning.

Feeling obliged to reciprocate, "I suppose you'll never know, will you?" Wondering if she's hallucinating or if she and Vegeta are, in some sick, sneaky way, _flirting_, she's about to hop on the Awkward Turtle and bolt when her ever-sunny mother pops into the room, overjoyed to discover them both awake and Ready to be Fed.

Vegeta bristles.

_Down boy_, she mentally wills, and then has the strangest sense he'd _heard_ her—

"Oh, goody! I was hoping you'd come down for breakfast, Vegeta, dear –you are going to _love_ my crepes. Bulma, sweetie, three or four helpers, if you wouldn't mind?" Anxious to escape whatever the hell Weirdness has installed itself in the kitchen, she nods enthusiastically and pushes away from the counter to head for the living room -with a final, meaningful parting glare in Vegeta's direction, of course, which she hopes he understands as something more or less along the lines of: '_Be nice to my mother or die painfully_.'

* * *

Following the morning's bizarre, irritating encounter with the woman –and the ensuing breakfast _freakshow_ with that fatuous creature she calls 'mother,' Vegeta promptly evacuates the gallery, forsaking what would otherwise be Sacred Space for a Saiyan to escape the flighty exuberances of a madwoman.

That this might qualify as running away is a notion he flatly refuses to entertain.

Thereafter, with the same idle preoccupation that had confined him to his assigned quarters for much of the previous evening (barring that _utterly_ satisfying interlude in the terrarium), he roams the winding corridors of the compound, ostensibly on an absent stroll even as he's carefully mapping the layout in his mind. Fastidious attention to environment was a lesson instilled early by his trainers on Vejiitasei -and later rigorously reinforced in Freeza's court, by virtue of his prized inability to stay long off of _anyone's_ Shit List.

The architecture on Earth (from what admittedly little he's seen of it) is not so very different –superficially, at the least—from the standard templates in the Cold Emporium: domed structures with high ceilings, stark, seamless paneling on generously-fortified walls, hard-tiled floors and inset-oblong fenestrations. In this respect, he allows, the Chikyuu natives are surprisingly modern –even if as a species, they are entirely backward.

He has, in the course of his military career, seen plenty enough personal dwellings to recognize the assorted trappings of the Briefs' household as relatively common: an excess of furniture for lounging or, alternatively, for displaying objects with no discernible utilitarian purpose, walls and windows draped with colorful fabrics or other touches of aesthetic taste, and various outmoded-looking machines he supposes are probably computers or appliances of miscellaneous function.

It becomes rapidly apparent to him that the woman and her parents enjoy an extraordinary level of affluence; to begin with, the compound is _massive_ –large enough, probably, to comfortably accommodate several dozen purging squads. Arrayed about this tremendous complex are auxiliary shelters and workspaces, arranged in pocket-clusters within the larger enclosure to form a loosely-organized little sovereign community all its own, divorced from the realities of the sprawling city providing its context.

And there's the woman's insufferable disposition to consider, he mentally appends, the quick temper and lack of proper terror and _flagrant_ sense of entitlement, exposing her for one Not-Often-Denied. As an aside, he supposes he's forced to admit that, however severely wanting of social graces she may be, she is also –stints of mind-boggling insanity notwithstanding—unquestionably, fiercely intelligent; there is about her an undeniable shrewdness of the eyes and a cleverness of tongue that intrigues him, even as it puts him off, makes him wary. (It will be some time yet before he learns the full scope of her technical proficiency, but he _has_ begun to grasp the implications of capsule technology, as well as what it means that the woman and her father are responsible for its creation.)

Furthermore, she seems thoroughly well-informed on the subject of the Saiyan appetite (her and her mother both, if this morning's satisfactorily enormous cuisine was any indication)–and hadn't batted an eye at the prospect of providing him with food indefinitely. Vegeta, together with Radditz and Nappa, had placed substantial strain on the resources of many-an-outpost in their day –yet the woman, here in her domestic fortress, remains remarkably unperturbed.

Clearly, she has drawn some general inferences about the proclivities of Saiyans, based on wisdom acquired from –he has to assume—first-hand experience. Prolonged first-hand experience, if anything is to be read from her reflexive responses to traits and behaviors she ascribes to his 'being Saiyan.' This becomes yet another corollary which segues (inevitably, it would seem) back to that destiny-thieving traitor, Kakarrot.

_How_ had these fools managed to subdue him? More than that –how had they managed to so irrevocably un_do_ everything about him that once had been Saiyan? At no point in Vegeta's early education had there been mention of infant soldiers going _native_ after planet fall. Some were killed, others lost in transit –but absorbed into their host planet's culture? Never. The concept alone is disgusting, shameful, preposterous.

The real item of interest, then, concerns the woman's connection with the Kakarrot –what is it, precisely? And, as a related matter, how did these no-ki Earthers come to know what appeared to be _all_ of this planet's strongest fighters?

Within seconds, quite on accident, he stumbles across the answer to both questions. Following the bend of the hallway up a flight of stairs, he emerges into a wing of the house she had not shown him last night, on the (mercifully much-shorter) tour of the residence.

To his immediate left is a non-descript door through which, as he steps closer, he can smell that reeking weed the woman's father is constantly smoking, nearly overwhelming a second, softer scent he identifies (with a touch of instinctive revulsion) as belonging to the Briefs' matriarch.

To his right is –chaos. The facade is all but blanketed with photographs, stretching the length of the hallway, terminating at the far end of the corridor near the threshold of another door. (Oddly, he knows -with swift, intractable certainty- that the room behind it belongs to Bulma.)

Vegeta peruses the bedlam, gaze sweeping across frozen images of that batty, foul-smelling old man and his empty-headed mate, many of these also featuring juvenile iterations of the woman, sitting in her father's lap, bent over some mechanical contraption or other, covered in grease and grinning like an imbecile, watering plants with her mother, even brandishing two of what he guesses are this planet's incredibly _small_ dragon balls, a mischievous grin cutting up at the corners of her mouth.

There are a great many photographs, too, of an adolescent Bulma and Kakarrot as a brat, flanked by shots of the two amidst shifting configurations of a large group of people, some of whom he's had the immense pleasure to watch die in humiliating fashion –a vagrant he recognizes as that hot-headed moron the Saibamen had offed, the bald monk, the three-eyed man and his doll, and countless others he's never seen before. (He does note, however, the conspicuous absence of the Earth-Namekian and Kakarrot's abomination.) With new clarity, he identifies the woman's relationship with Kakarrot (and the variegated assortment of Others) as one of long-history and camaraderie. (This does not account for _how _this disgraceful thing happened, of course, but it is a place to start, if nothing else.)

Then come the small collection of photos depicting only the woman and that scarred weakling, enacting all manner of absurd rituals. In one, she appears to have murder on her mind, chasing the fool around the Capsule Corp lawn with a great, gleaming, sharply-pronged object; in another, the warrior is on bended knee, palm laid dramatically across his breast, holding out a bouquet of colorfully-festooned plants to a beaming Bulma. And there are plenty more –of the two hand-in-hand, embracing, arguing, of the scarred man hefting her in his arms, of the woman planting an impromptu kiss on the blushing buffoon's cheek—all of which indicate her relationship with this one is something somewhat _more_ than simply 'friendship…'

Vegeta attempts to tease out when he became so stiff, exhaling to release the inexplicable tension –and promptly pulling taut all over again when he catches a whiff of the woman coming up the stairs.

In the instant following, she mounts the final steps and slows to a stop, blinking at him. He becomes suddenly conscious of how much time has passed since he'd first started wandering, and just as quickly irritated that he'd somehow gotten caught up in the Briefs' patchwork exhibition of their nightmarish obsession with preserving the past. His eyes challenge her to say anything about where he is or what he'd been caught doing.

Instead, she smiles softly at him.

"This is one of my favorites," she points toward some photograph or other as she shores up beside him, and after a moment's assessment of her intentions, he flicks his gaze askance, following the line of her finger to a picture of herself kneeling beside a young Kakarrot, one elbow wound loosely around the boy's collar, both hands flashing that ubiquitous 'v,' her face split into a wide grin. "I hadn't known Goku very long at that point; he was still just some freaky kid I happened to run across when I first went looking for the dragonballs." This strikes a chord of rare interest in him.

"What fool wish had _you_ intended to make?" She reddens faintly at his candid curiosity, scratching nervously at her cheek.

"Ummmm. Well, see, you have to understand: I was very, very young, hadn't seen much of the world yet, and I was used to just going and _getting_ something when I wanted it, instead of waiting around, twiddling my thumbs, _hoping_ it'd happen, and, um, also, uh—"

"Quit blathering."

Composing herself, "I'd planned to wish for, uh, well…a boyfriend…?" She ends lamely, validating his initial evaluation of her frivolity. Then, with a curious measure of confidence, "I know that probably sounds stupid to you—" (he snorts, confirming this conclusion) "-but I already had everything else I could ever dream of wanting –fabulous beauty and brains, fame and fortune, parents who loved me; to my mind, the only thing missing was someone to share my happiness _with_. So I…went adventuring, I guess, not really looking for my Prince—" Realizing after a beat to whom she's speaking, she backtracks, smiling sheepishly, "—that is, uh, for the perfect boyfriend, so much as the dragonballs to find him for me, and that's how I met Son-kun and Krillin and that old, turtle _pervert_—" (Vegeta's brow hikes up at the disparaging title) "—and Lunch and Chi Chi and…and Yamcha." A wistful tinge colors her smile. "And then I decided I didn't need the dragonballs after all." His mind flashes him an image of a younger Bulma pressing her lips to the face of the first of their warriors to expire. "But I'm still glad I went after 'em. Kami knows, my life wouldn't be half as interesting if I'd never met that goofball kid. The same can be said for most of the senshi, actually. Whatever the reason, our respective encounters with Goku are what brought us all together." She searches out his gaze, pointedly holds it. "You'd be surprised how many of our dearest friends started out as hated enemies." He narrows his eyes at the unspoken insinuation, but says nothing. Let her think what she wants, he decides; in the end, her idiotic notions will prove nothing more than childish fantasy.

In the end, she'll die with the rest of her miserable species, albeit perhaps more painfully for her insolence.

-speaking of which: the woman, who has been quietly studying him in the aftermath of her offensive disclosure, begins –unbelievably—to _laugh_ at him, blue hair dusting across pale cheeks in the throes of her mirth.

"Oh, loosen up, ya' old stick-in-the-mud! The promise of friendship isn't a _threat_, for Kami's sake!" She sets one hand against her hip, expression amused. "Goodness, Vegeta, don't you ever _relax_?" He smirks at her, dangerously.

"I've found _killing_ things generates an appreciable level of serenity." For an instant, the woman looks strangely –_dismayed_, as if this response were somehow both surprising and disappointing (which, if true, means he has drastically overestimated her intelligence), but he forgets this baffling expression (and its equally absurd subtext) almost at once, when she abandons it for an impressively hostile sneer. Then, just as he's thinking this might get interesting, all that startlingly combative energy evaporates, and she grins at him, sardonically.

_What a nonsensical progression_, he muses, puzzled.

"Well, Vegeta. You'll certainly never win Miss Congeniality* with an attitude like _that_." He gathers he's missing some crucial cultural knowledge here that would grant him better appreciation of her meaning; still, he understands the comment as the slight it's obviously meant to be.

Shockingly, the escalating indignity of this encounter continues: in an act of **unthinkable** familiarity, Bulma edges closer and, impossibly casual, lightly snaps her fingers against the Royal Bottom.

He goes positively _rigid_.

Outraged, horrified, and furiously trying to decide whether he wants more to scream at her or instead to simply vaporize her where she stands, Bulma proceeds to make a remark to the effect of 'unclenching already,' so that –ye gods—the 'stick could _fall out of his ass_.'

The woman has a death wish.

"You _vulgar, low-born_-!"

"Anyway, Prince Vegeta," she dips him a shallow curtsy, smoothly cutting through his indignation, "I have to go sleep for fourteen or fifteen hours; come find me tomorrow with your meal schedule, and I'll show you how to use the bots. In the meantime," her eyes flash with deadly promise she cannot possibly enforce, "no more butchering of family pets –or any sentient species on the planet, for that matter. And you'll leave the Namekians alone, too, if you know what's good for you." The force of her wrath is diminished by the gaping yawn that overtakes her by the close of her speech. "Oi, but I'm tired." And with that, she turns her back to him, bidding him 'good night' as she walks away, in spite of the sun blazing through the windows from its highest position in the sky.

Dumbstruck, Vegeta forgets he could be ending her now, engrossed as he is in watching her track down the hall, one pendulous sway of the hips after another. He determines at this moment that Kakarrot is going to be very, _very_ lucky indeed, if he somehow manages to make it the full one hundred-thirty days without brutally murdering this shameless female and her entire freakish brood.

By the time she reaches her door and peers back to check if he's still there, he's thrown himself out the nearest window and vanished into the upper atmosphere.

* * *

"Ohoho…these brilliant little humans." Kami's wizened visage crinkles with fondness. "They never cease to astonish." There's an almost…giddy cast to the deity's face, Popo decides.

"Kami-sama?" The djinn prompts, staring in wide-eyed bemusement and kneeling to water the jasmine.

"There is something afoot, if I'm not mistaken, Popo; something…remarkably amusing." God leans heavily against his staff, gaze distant, yet doting.

"What do you see?"

"What I see, dearest friend, is the twinkle of a resplendent possibility." Mr. Popo isn't particularly surprised at the cryptic reply; it would not do, after all, for God to disclose the substance of his divine insights.

Still, as he joins Kami by the temple's edge and casts his Sight to the world below, he does wish fleetingly that he understood what it is he's missing, that God should find import in so small a thing as a hallway quibble –even if the combatants _are_ Bulma Briefs and the displaced Saiyan Prince.

* * *

Vegeta doesn't check in with her the following day as instructed. He doesn't show up the day after that, either. Or the day after _that_.

For just as long, in fact, he's been absent entirely –he hasn't even put in any cameo kitchen appearances, demanding to be fed. (This she learns from her mother, who's been lamenting the 'poor, sweet young man's' sudden disappearance since yesterday afternoon.)

On the one hand, this means he's not constantly underfoot, snapping and snarling at anyone and everyone who dares approach him with even the most innocuous purpose –or, conversely, picking fights himself with her or Piccolo or the other Namekians (or Gohan, who's stopped by once already to visit Dende and his dad's arch-rival-turned-baleful-daycare-supervisor) at the off-chance someone might provide him sufficient reason to murder everyone in sight, which she's betting is his Favorite Leisure-Time Activity.

What's more, he seems to be following her edict concerning Senseless Destruction exceptionally well; to make sure, she's kept herself diligently apprised of world events, and thus far no reports have surfaced involving the mysterious razing of entire continents, so she's decided he's just on sabbatical, perhaps having a look-see at the planet he'd previously intended to purge and sell on the intergalactic market. She's prepared to hope this exposure to the world she loves so dearly may even begin to endear him to it.

(…wait, no, that's _delusional_.)

On the other hand, if he _isn't_ here, constantly underfoot, then he's out _there_ somewhere, snapping and snarling and Kami-knows-what-else at anyone he damn well pleases, and with no master to curtail his maniacal whimsy, no one to bully him into behaving or threaten him when he steps out of line, she dreads imagining what he might actually be up to. Although, she concedes, if he _was_ quietly executing people in the dark of night (in true boogey-man fashion), surely Gohan or Piccolo would _know_, would sense it with their weird psychic mojo, would stop it, somehow. (Or, y'know, they would definitely give it their best shot…)

After a few days turns into a full week without His Crankiness checking in, she starts considering the possibility that he might not coming back. Maybe the little monkey bastard had found himself a nice, cozy tree to curl up in and eat bananas all day, she muses, a touch vindictively. And maybe he's intending to stay there until Goku's been wished back to life, because maybe he prefers the isolation homelessness affords to the fellowship of company he so obviously disdains.

Later, Bulma wonders if Vegeta's impromptu tour of the planet wasn't in some part motivated by her casual forwardness in the hallway the other day. She hadn't thought anything of it at the time, of course, but the Prince's scandalized face in the aftermath of her playful tap kept cropping up unexpectedly in her mind, forcing her to re-evaluate the gesture she'd taken for granted.

She _also_ wonders what Vegeta's more domestic plans are. For instance, while he's surely capable of living off of the land and providing for himself…what's he gonna do when the only clothing he owns inevitably wears out? Will he return, command her to furnish a new suit, and then take off again once she'd finished? Would he consent to wearing Earth clothes instead? Or does he, perhaps, have the same 'Clothing Optional' philosophy as Son-kun…?

Bulma promptly terminates the nascent thought, before it has time to develop into something with a will of its own.

In the Vegeta-less interim, she spends large portions of her days working with her dad, re-immersing herself in the company business he often neglects (more often out of absent-mindedness than any sort of witting dereliction of duty), and tending to her guests' entertainment and settlement needs.

She tries her hand at teaching the Namekians how to play poker, but –as she might have expected—they aren't exactly quick studies at picking up the finer points of the game. The underlying principle revolves around careful calculation and deceit, after all, and neither the adolescent nor the elder generations demonstrate a talent for the deft arts of prevarication. Just as cruelty and violence seems coded into Saiyan DNA, so the Nameks appear genetically prone to scrupulous virtue. (Although, as Goku and Piccolo respectively prove, there're exceptions to even these rules.) More than once, she's had to stop them from revealing the contents of their hands to one another, struggling to be patient as they exhibit varying shades of bewilderment at the idea that candor is a no-no.

Ultimately, she gives up the venture for a lost cause, and shows them card games that don't require some modicum of cunning.

Her parents fare much better teaching their guests to play golf, though it's her mom who provides the lion's share of the instruction, since the founder of Capsule Corp, well-renowned for his wandering attention span, turns out to be mostly useless as a coach.

Gohan shows up several more times throughout the week (only once with actual permission from Chi Chi), often without even stopping in to say hello to her or her parents before he flies off with Dende or Piccolo or both. And Piccolo, for his part, has been an unexpectedly helpful –if gruff—resource in this transitional period, acting (sporadically) as intermediary between his people and hers. Getting used to the Demon King living at Capsule Corp has been a considerably strange and spooky affair, but it's becoming progressively easier to think of him as a member of the gang –due in no small part to his being perpetually surrounded by a giggling pair of children, whom he tolerates with his own peculiar brand of grim, unsmiling affection.

A little over two weeks later, when she's finally re-established something like the routine she'd maintained before she'd shot off into outer space on that wild goose chase that'd nearly killed them all, Vegeta returns, quietly, unceremoniously; in much the same manner of that first, unpleasant morning, she waltzes into the kitchen, intending to make herself something light for an afternoon snack, only to intercept the Saiyan Prince entering from the opposite door.

For a full moment, she stares at him in all his tattered, ridiculously-muscled glory, not totally sure he's real.

At the sight of her, that ever-present surly expression sours further.

"Where the heck've _you_ been?" At the sound of her, his lip curls.

"I fail to see how that is any of your business, woman." Bulma rolls her eyes.

_We've certainly hit the ground running, haven't we…?_

"And here I'd been afraid time out in the world might've ruined that sparkling personality of yours." Popping a hand to her hip, she meets his darkening gaze head on. "I was only curious, you ass."

"Prying wench." Leaps off his tongue almost automatically, the beginnings of a grin tugging up at one corner of his mouth.

Tone rising heatedly, "Self-important _prick_!"

Vegeta slides forward at a slow, measured clip, a wicked twist to his lips.

"Careful, little human. I am not known for patience. Or _mercy_." The veiled threat does not impress her.

"Of course you're not. You're 'known' for being a compulsively evil _creep_."

She can't even process the movement –one minute he's on the other side of the room, the next he's materializing before her very eyes, a certain lingering, impenetrable smile on his face. She takes one startled, shuffling step backward, glaring up at him defiantly and clenching her fists in frustration as it dawns on her that she's just lost her ground. His smile becomes downright haughty.

_Speedy little bastard._

"Woman," Vegeta begins, his voice a hard caress as he shifts into her surrendered space, closing the distance all over again and _definitely_ invading her personal bubble, "I would not be so cavalier with my tongue, were I you." Gingerly, he snaps one hand out to take her by the throat, only the barest hint of pressure at her pulse, the whisper of gloved fingers at the nape of her neck. "I will not hesitate to end you." There's nothing in his tone to indicate he's not perfectly serious about killing her right here in her own kitchen, and no contradiction of purpose in that endless, black gaze; given the slightest encouragement, she has no doubt he'd off her now and forget he ever knew her by dinner.

Which must mean she's finally lost her marbles, because –for reasons lacking any sort of actual _reason_—she just can't find it in her to be afraid.

She _is_…Something Else, but _what_ Else, she can't say.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it: blah-blah-snap-your-neck-blah. Save it for someone whose best friend wouldn't flatten you into a Saiyan-shaped pancake for harming her." Now fully seething, Vegeta searches her face, probably, she figures, trying to understand how she can be so flippant about the matter of her Imminent Demise. (Truth be told, she's still working that one out herself.) "You want lunch, or what?" His expression falters, slipping briefly into stupefaction; in the next instant, his scowl reasserts itself. "If so," her fingers alight at his wrist, "we'll need to raincheck this homicidal episode." Applying gentle force at his pulse, she guides his hand away from her oh-so-squeezable throat.

And he _lets_ her.

Looking thoroughly disturbed, Vegeta backs away from her, shaking his head as in disbelief. Then he dismisses himself, growling out something along the lines of her being 'fortunate' for having caught him in so 'fair and gracious' a mood, rounding out this absurd exposition with yet another promise of Impending Doom unless she has a meal ready for him within the hour.

Bulma's only half paying attention; as he's shoving past the same door he'd entered through, she's attempting to justify a universe that could possibly allow so insufferable a man to have such an _exquisite_ ass.

* * *

The first several days are touch-and-go.

By the end of the second Solar Day he is with Them, it becomes patently clear that, deprived of intensive, mitigating care, he will most assuredly expire. Imminently. Equally apparent to Them, as They endure a series of fruitless attempts to revive him from his unnatural sleep, is the outright inadequacy of conventional medicaments; gradually, They come to appreciate that the full-breadth of Their medical expertise is decidedly insufficient to facilitate the stranger's recovery. Indeed, though gravely injured from the prodigious contest They had sensed all the way from here (a good half-a-system's distance from where said planet-ending conflict had occurred), They discern that his true damage is psychic in origin.

And no stint in a regeneration tank could help to determine the outcome of a war within oneself.

Happily, They are marvelously well-versed in a number of by-far more reliable and pervasive healing arts, having evolved as a species principally reliant on extrasensory aptitude; a good thing, too, as in the midst of his cataleptic spasms, the stranger inadvertently undergoes an alarming –if stunning—transformation, amplifying his _ki_ to astonishing-spectacular levels and very nearly incinerating himself –and Them as well—in the process.

Thereafter, the stranger's body refuses to power down, instead fluctuating wildly between ever more perilous extremes as the threads of his (admittedly formidable) control gradually loose and fray and snap altogether under the weight of raw, turbulent emotions he evidently has no experience handling.

Were They not Themselves equipped to deal with what is so utterly beyond the reach of simple science, They have little doubt the stranger would have been long-since overcome by the sheer vehemence of the darkness which, They are soon to discover, had (surprisingly) never existed within him before his most recent, violent engagement –and that would, quite certainly, have been the end for Them all.

As it is, when the stranger reaches the brink of capitulation (and consequent destruction), They waste no time; with susurrus persuasions and the frank assurance They mean only benevolent guidance, They beg entry into his mind. Even submerged as he is amidst a roiling ocean of desperate confusion and deep, irrepressible anger, he perceives Their honest intent and, with a nearly-tangible sense of relief and gratitude, subsides, receiving Them.

Much later, Their histories will mark this moment as Their pivotal Beginning with the peculiar-extraordinary organism known as _Son Goku._

* * *

*i refer less to the movie of Sandra Bullock fame, and more to the pageant title in general.

next chapter: dende goes sight-seeing, krillin meets a(nother) god, bulma throws a party, chi chi just plain throws things, goku learns how to fold space, and vegeta comes close to killing everyone. repeatedly.


	3. the gods-forsaken catch

woooooooooooow. super overdue. very, very sorry, loves.

we'll get right to it, then, shall we?

[i wish i knew how to quit you, disclaimer.]

* * *

**chapter three**

* * *

**Age 737**

"_Your technique is crude at best, downright clumsy at worst, Princeling." Zarbon remarks coolly, propping one hand against his hip while the other sweeps a lock of green hair out of his eyes. He pays only fleeting mind to the growling, sparking Saiyan embedded in the wall. "Good thing I came along, really; you might otherwise've gone your entire, pathetic life thinking you were __**fighting**__ and not just flailing about like some spoiled, mewling infant." Zarbon neatly dodges the bit or three of wall debris Vegeta lobs at his head with enough force to separate it from his body. A gentle smile softens his countenance, belied by the incisiveness of his criticism. "Over-powerful you may well be for your age, little Prince, but you lack any and all sense of *finesse.*"_

_The child finishes extricating himself from the rubble, glaring with an eerily thoughtful intensity, __the like of which he can't say he's ever experienced from one so young. Then again, this is his first encounter with a juvenile Saiyan; perhaps they're all this precocious at Vegeta's age._

_Or perhaps that's just a feature of the younglings pawned off by their fathers to rival empires, he reflects dispassionately._

_"I understand Saiyans find polish tedious and precision extraneous; after all, why bother with skill when brute power gets the job done just as well?" They are expressive, the child's eyes; Zarbon has no difficulty interpreting Vegeta's pique as one of grave offense. "But this is Cold Space, Prince; out here, your power level is quaint, but nothing special. Skill's what sets you apart, or throws you in with the chaff."_

_"Finished yet with your prattling, freak?" The impudent little mammal begins circling the arena, tail flicking neatly back and forth behind him. Zarbon remains impassive._

_"Instinct without insight is lazy, and logic of movement without discretion, reckless. You're too impulsive, and that can be worse than even transparency. Unless you're willing to accept the instruction I've been ordered to give you, someday, somewhere, some no-account nobody is going to dismantle you –and it won't be luck or even especial skill that grants them victory, Vegeta. Your own feckless ignorance will undo you **for** them."_

_For one horrifying instant, the Prince's power reading spikes to an inconceivable level, and he becomes nearly painful to behold, engulfed as he is by an aura so __**white**__ –but by the time he clears the space between them and materializes before Zarbon's eyes, bleeding and incensed, the scouter's outrageous read-out has plummeted to a reasonable measure, and Freeza's attaché is able to shake himself free of his split-second trepidation in time to duck Vegeta's point blank ki strike, redirect the boy's side-swiping roundhouse, and land a solid elbow to the Saiyan's royal gut, sending him rocketing right back into the wall._

"_Aiyee, Princeling," Zarbon nurses the forearm he'd used to deflect Vegeta's kick, something like real surprise and grudging approval surfacing is his gaze. "Impetuous you may be, but you __**are **__a quick one, aren't you?" His gaze turns appraising. "There may be hope for you yet." Vegeta tears himself out of the rubble, sweeping the back of his hand across bleeding lips, eyes black with rage. Zarbon smiles fondly. "Ready to learn, or are we staying this course of one-sided pounding? Let me assure you, it makes little difference to me one way or the other."_

"_**Fuck you**__." The Prince snarls, tail lashing. "You end __**now**__."_

_Zarbon doesn't allow him the time to power up for the ki blast so obviously coming, instead appearing at the boy's side and aiming a flat-handed blow straight at the recalcitrant Saiyan's neck. At the last possible second, the Prince sees it coming and attempts to twist out of the way, but Zarbon effortlessly changes trajectory, following the movement, and snags his fingers in the collar of Vegeta's armor, jerking him backwards and using the jarring momentum to smash him into the floor._

_As darkness spiders along the edges of Vegeta's vision, Zarbon kneels beside him, fingers cradling –almost tenderly—at the base of his skull._

"_You really don't know anything, do you, little Prince?" Sighing, " I suppose that means you and I will be seeing quite a bit of one another." The irritable mammal produces a gurgling sound at the back of his throat. "I'm planning to interpret that as enthusiasm." The Saiyan gives a reflexive twitch of rebellion, and is still._

* * *

It's been well over a decade now since Zarbon had dispensed his first 'advice' as the Prince's designated sensei, and nearly as long since Vegeta's bothered to reflect on their first official session together.

But with very little else other than training (under this planet's negligible gravity) or hunting (entirely-too-complacent or skittish game) to occupy his time, he's taken more often to meditating, recognizing perforce that a spiritual realignment is in order; the entire course of his life has just taken a sharp turn, after all, and even if for the better part of his subjugation he'd stubbornly ignored Zarbon's insistent harping on the importance of the exercise, he'd long ago acknowledged its efficacy, and had, accordingly, allotted a passable amount of time to its practice.

As promised, commitment to even semi-regular meditation had facilitated the steady growth of his power, and helped him through a period of rapidly spiking _ki_ and extreme self-control trouble Zarbon had grinningly dubbed 'puberty,' as well, though he'd come nowhere near admitting as much to his smug freak of a trainer. (Annoyingly, the changeling seems to have known all the same.)

But he'd only ever done as much meditating as he felt he absolutely _had to_, and it'd been quite a while –a year, maybe more—since he'd deemed it necessary. Several weeks ago, when he'd settled in for his first session in who-knows-how-long, he'd had an inordinately difficult time of it; his focus had been scattered, his body restless with the inactivity and his mind bored of the tedium almost instantly.

Still, he'd persevered, well-aware that –like or not—there were issues that needed sorting through: namely, how in _seven hells_ Kakarrot had managed to ascend to _his_ Super Saiyan birthright. *How* had that frivolous _moron_, with no knowledge of his heritage and still less comprehension of the power he'd tapped, managed to so effortlessly achieve the goal he'd been striving his entire _life_ to reach? And, what had triggered it? Discipline? Desperation? Despair? The strength of his desire to protect his weakling friends?

No answers have been forthcoming; he'd sifted through every fragment of every legend he could uncover from the muck of adolescent memory, and thus far his only certainty is that he'll have _no_ certainties until Kakarrot returns.

While he's grasped at straws for coveted answers about Super Saiyans (newly a plural phenomenon), the trek backwards through time has drudged up an uncomfortable abundance of unwelcome memories –of himself in full royal regalia, flanked by Nappa and Radditz, kneeling to swear fealty to Freeza, his father aloof –_bored_, even—at the lizard tyrant's back; of Nappa brutally murdering several dozen Imperial foot soldiers over news of Vejiitasei's 'unfortunate' destruction, Radditz gaping in disbelief at the Prince's shoulder; and Zarbon, years and years of Zarbon, attempting to beat patience and restraint into him at every turn, poisoning him with altogether alien affectations and appetites, distorting self-evident truths with bizarre personal philosophies, gradually nicking out his own indelible space in Vegeta's mind, having made at least enough of an impact in the development of his character and combat style that Nappa had complained –often and at idiotic length—of his abberancy, his wholesale abandonment of Saiyan conduct and mores.

It was perhaps inevitable, then, that in light of his return to the place of his greatest defeat and the incidental trip down memory lane, he'd return to the site of his very first humiliation at the hands of a hated foe. To that casual, point-blank admonition, words just as well not uttered for all Vegeta'd bothered to hear them, now rendered prescient by hindsight; he had indeed been cowed by the least likely specimen ––though Kakarrot, a consummate 'nobody' if he's ever seen one, can by no measure be judged a 'no-account.'

The fool's got a preternatural head for martial arts; he learns the patterns of his adversaries quickly, and his style is efficient, his technique solid, his capacity for intuitive-effectual improvisation evidently boundless. And now there's that power level to contend with, as well, that wild, impossible energy signature he'd locked onto back on Namek, before he'd been magically transported to Earth. From a man who, scarcely a year prior, hadn't been able to defeat _Radditz_ by himself. Whose strength had miraculously grown, in the course of a few months, to such a degree that he'd swatted Nappa aside like an insect and proceeded thereafter to beat _him -_and while that victory had been a near-thing, accomplished not without assistance, it had also been decisive.

Then, _insanely_, two months following, the idiot peasant had managed both to bring a legend to life and to trounce the heretofore uncontested ruler supreme of the largest galactic empire in the universe.

It's true, he allows, that he'd been overconfident in his own power, that he'd underestimated his opponent, that he'd been reckless, impetuous, and sloppy; but 'feckless ignorance' or no, the monstrous challenge Kakarrot posed would never have changed.

And Vegeta has no idea _**why**_.

In some distant recess of his mind, Zarbon chides,

"_You really don't know anything, do you, little Prince?"_

* * *

"My, my, my, you're a funny-looking fellow, aren't you?"

Krillin is…not in several dozen pieces, spattered here and there about the landscape in so many gooey lumps of charred, bloody flesh. There's a mystery for solving –but he shelves it for the moment in favor of trying to fit his mind around the visage of a giant pink catfish obstructing his view of the _yellow sky_.

"Uhhh…" He begins, wary. Having been dead once already, he knows to be careful about mouthing off to the random denizens of the Afterlife; after all, the last time he'd gotten cheeky, he'd managed to piss off an enormous immortal bureaucrat. (More specifically, _Enma Dai-o_, who'd come uncomfortably close to flattening him with a ledger the size of Kame House in the aftermath.) "I'm, umm…I'm dead, I guess?"

"I certainly hope so. Your being here otherwise _would_ be something." Krillin chuckles nervously, warily eye-balling his host as he climbs to his feet.

"And 'here' is…?"

"The Immortal Plains, of course." The catfish proclaims, as if this explains everything. "In the Southern Galactic Quadrant."

"Oh, er, r-right. And, you are…?" A twitch of his chin, and the odd creature's sunglasses glint theatrically, caught by a light –with, hmmm, no clear point of origin, actually. ('The Immortal Plains' are very vibrantly colorful, but after a cursory sweep reveals the Plains lack any visible sun or star in the sky, he's not quite sure _how_.) This is obviously a question his host's been waiting for; round lips crease into a broad grin, his chest puffs out importantly, arms akimbo-ing at either hip, "I am…" Here he pauses, likely for dramatic effect. The monk absently concludes that he'd gotten his fill of 'dramatic effect' with the Ginyu Force. "_Minami no Kaio-samaaaaa_!"

Krillin deadpans, under-whelmed. When he appears to understand his grand introduction has fallen flat, the catfish's ears redden.

"*_**ahem**__*_"

"I'm, um, Krillin." Respectfully, he closes his palms and performs a shallow bow. "I'm from Earth." Looking to be placated with the modest obeisance, the taller of the two clears his throat again.

"Yes, we've recently been hearing _lots_ of interesting things about 'Earth.'"

"…'we?'"

Glossing right over his question,

"Seems the silly old fool finally found himself a worthwhile champion; been _ages_ since he brought anyone useful around…" Krillin doesn't respond, hoping his silence will prompt some form of clarification. "Your friend, the Saiyan—"

"Goku? Do you mean Goku?" The monk perks up with sudden excitement. "Is he okay? What happened? Did he make it? How are the others?" The catfish chuckles, amused at the rapid-fire interrogation.

"I _do_ think Goku was his name, actually. He's beaten an incredible foe, you know." Krillin swells with relief; Goku always manages to pull out with a win, but it never gets any easier to watch his friend put his life on the line. He slumps to his knees, feeling old beyond his years, and very, very tired.

"I'd say I can't believe he beat Freeza, but I guess if there's anyone who could take that monster down, it'd be Goku." He's talking more to himself than his companion, but that doesn't stop the self-professed 'King of the South' from putting in his two cents.

"If I'd sent in any of _my_ champions, of course, Freeza'd have been no trouble at all. But, well, that was more an affair of the living, you know; not my place to get involved…" Krillin gives his host an indulgent nod, though he harbors private doubt this boast would hold water. "Still, it might've been nice to meet your Saiyan friend. There were rumors he'd died when the planet blew, but he'd certainly have _been_ here by now if he had, wouldn't he…?"

"The '_planet blew_?'" Horror spins through Krillin's mind, disorienting him.

"Oh, yes. Spec-_tac-_ularly. Fortunately, it seems your other friends used the Namekers' dragon balls to escape the destruction moments before it happened. Only Freeza and Goku were left on Namek when it finally exploded, but _neither_ of them have appeared at the check-in station; the Ice-jinn can breathe in space, of course, so there's a chance Freeza's still alive, but your Saiyan definitely wouldn't have made it in open space. Which I guess means he escaped somehow." It's almost too much to process: Namek, gone, Freeza, defeated but not dead, and Goku, apparently victorious but mysteriously missing.

How much did everyone back home know?

He hears himself echoing the question to the Southern Kai.

"They know about as much as they need to know, I'd say." The catfish hedges. Krillin's about to demand –er, politely request that his host make himself useful and patch him through to his friends, stat, so he can relay what he's learned, perhaps warn them to be ready for the possibility that Freeza's alive, but he's headed off. "I know you'd probably like to get in touch with your comrades, but Earth's a bit out of my jurisdiction, I'm afraid, and technically, we're not allowed to interact with the living, anyway. Though _some_ of us follow this rule better than others…" He grumbles, again alluding to some other-worldly personage without offering any manner of explanation. "I'd suggest you not worry about it too much, for the moment. You'll be wished back soon enough, I imagine, and then you can tell your friends whatever you'd like." The catfish raises two pink fingers to his round chin, contemplative. "Assuming you remember any of this, of course. I suppose there's a chance you'll be wiped when they wish your soul over to Earth's check-in station."

Krillin's far too weary to attempt to wheedle any further information out of the Kai, much less to insist he be told what the heck the possibility of his being 'wiped' means, exactly.

Instead, he turns his mind outward, frantic concern over Goku's fate his foremost preoccupation.

_What's happened to you, Goku? Where __**are**__ you?_

* * *

It isn't long before They discover the super-heated blood coursing through Their visitor's veins is _Saiyan_.

They are no strangers to stories of the terror wrought by the long-expunged warrior race; in much the same fashion as the mercenary arm of the Cold Empire, the Saiyans had been infamously joyful dealers of suffering, bereavement, and death across a span of galaxies. _Unlike _those under the employ of Cold and his vicious sons, the Saiyans had engaged in the planet trade less for profit or dominion, and more for sheer thrill of battle and blood.

The self-same love of contest is stamped indelibly into Son Goku's psyche, an inextricable part of him he's made no attempt to deny or resist. Yet…this one's heritage is somehow _not_ the sum of his identity; his is a spirit of infinite compassion and impregnable purity, whose life's energy has been spent in willing, gleeful service of virtue and justice.

An anomaly then, is this Saiyan raised on Earth, whose heart so consummately belies the predispositions of his genetic nature.

It is this very nature he struggles against now, awakened by the sister furies of unstable wrath and crushing despair, the terrible potency of which threaten to crush his will and bend him to the very violence from whence his new power had been borne.

For days without end, They gradually loosen the knotting malevolence, gently coaxing snarls apart while Their comatose charge relies upon some preternatural restraint mechanism to hold his volatile energy at bay. Every hour that passes earns him increasing levels of admiration and astonishment, until at length, They are left simply in awe –that They are all still alive, certainly, but also that so visceral a being could withstand such a prolonged spiritual onslaught; his fortitude is nothing short of phenomenal.

Leading into Their fourth Solar Day, They've sorted through enough of the psychic tangles that They've begun toying with the idea of excising what remains of the iniquitous knot in the interest of time –until Son Goku stops them. A brief, though stern, rebuff echoes into his thoughts, forbidding this course, together with the self-possessed assurance that he _will not_ allow himself to make fruitless Their kind efforts to help him.

They believe him, and accede, patiently beginning Their work anew. They have yet higher esteem for him still, that he would choose to accept his darkness, to know and conquer and _use_ it, as much for the unity of his spirit as for the strength that comes with it.

It is well into their seventh Solar Day before, at long, long last, Their visitor looses the transformation, the golden flame of his person extinguished in the blink of an eye, leaving Them an unconscious, much smaller-looking male with dark, wild hair. Within seconds, he begins emitting Most Perturbing noises from his nose and mouth, wordless, guttural rumblings produced –so far as They can tell—somewhere in the vicinity of his throat and alternatively tapering and crescendoing into a great, rattling _roar_…

After careful observation, They decide this behavior is innocuous, if odd, and turn to preparing for Their own, much needed Resting Cycles, leaving two among Them to monitor Their slumbering guest.

* * *

Vegeta's spontaneous globe-trotting foray turns out to be merely the first in a long series of improvisational vanishing acts, and while the free-loading little snot always manages to find his way back to Capsule Corp (invariably just as dinner's being served), it's rare he stays for more than a day or two –if that—before he disappears all over again, without a word, often for days and weeks at a time.

…which, okay, fine, isn't such an unfamiliar pattern when she stops to think about it –_Goku_'d never been able to stay put for long, either, preferring instead to be constantly on the move, living off the land, making new friends, challenging and fighting evermore mind-bogglingly powerful opponents, forever restless to match himself against warriors who will push him to his very limits -and beyond.

Son-kun's has been –and would likely always be- an adventurous spirit; now, in light of Vegeta's routine truancy, she begins to wonder if the impulse for itinerancy isn't a heritable trait for Saiyans.

The rest of the senshi have embarked –regularly, in fact—on their fair share of lengthy, long-distance training expeditions, true enough, but between tournaments and escapades and the periodic epic battle to defend Earth from an assortment of scary-terrible psychopaths, each and every last one of them (even Tenshinhan, though he would deny it) occasionally require respite, to pursue relationships or careers, to rest broken bodies and frayed nerves.

But not Goku. His habit, for as long as she's known him, has been to set off in search of the next big adventure the _instant_ his current one comes to a close. Son-kun hadn't been made for sedentary life.

And neither, apparently, had Vegeta.

She's fast learning to be glad of this, since when he _is_ around, he's alternatively snappish and standoffish, vehement or cold, ordering her parents –primarily her mother—about in menacing tones precisely as she feared he might (and just as she feared _they_ might, her parents have taken to enabling his Authority Over All Beings attitude by indulging his every royal whim, which is _not helping_ set the precedent that they're not slaves to be commanded, DAMMIT), occasionally prodding her into hysterical explosions of rage, which all-too-often seem to end with him elaborating (with increasing imagination) on the (really rather upsetting) theme of her untimely demise –a fate she's managed thus far to sidestep, in spite of what would appear to be his ferocious, unconditional hatred of everything about her.

Still, none of this alarms or disturbs her nearly as much as the –now recurrent—occasions she catches him casting sidelong glances at Gohan, expression critical, assessing –ominous. Bulma's seen for herself that Goku's little boy is no pushover, and knows there's a damn good chance he's one of the most dangerous six-year-olds in the known universe, besides; the trouble is, a few short weeks ago, Vegeta'd batted that dangerous six-year-old aside with unsettling ease, and was likely no less capable of the same now. With no clue what Vegeta's strange fixation could possibly _mean _(though she's got upsetting theories to spare), she's worried, almost frightened that the Prince has keyed onto something in her best friend's kid that might provide pretext to hurt him. Or worse.

_Apart_ from his aura of Impending Doom and the black cloud of surly unpleasantness that follows him around wherever he goes, though, she supposes he's pretty alright for a tenant. He's loads tidier than Goku will ever learn to be, has the _sense_ of manners if not always –or ever—the inclination to use them, and while he _is_ around, he mostly keeps to himself (except when he's snapping out commands or pledging to murder her in her sleep), shadow-boxing on the lawn or confining himself to his room, only ever appearing when there's food to be eaten or a little boy to creepily narrow his eyes at from afar.

Overall low-maintenance (not counting their now _outrageous_ food bill) and unobtrusive, Vegeta hardly ranks the worst live-in guest she's ever had (-this assessment being of course contingent on his continued adherence to her Not Killing Things ordinance). Then again, she supposes that probably says less about Vegeta's agreeability than it does about her flawlessly regrettable choices of company; in an inventory of weirdo-cracked, messy, thieving-pervert, and/or cheating-bastard housemates, the Prince has got some pretty large shoes to fill.

It happens mid-way through a very unflattering mental crack concerning her doubts that the little jerk ever _could_ fill 'large' shoes: an odd, fizzling current cuts through her, starting somewhere around her fingertips and tingling to her toes, prompting her to her feet and carrying her out of the lab before she fully realizes she's gotten up. She has the vague impression she's looking for something, but only abstractly; this is primarily a subconscious venture. She's still got algorithms running laps around her brain, so she's mostly just wandering, not really going anywhere until she is, and by the time she's outside she decides she must be losing it, because she can't put a finger on what brought her out here in the first place.

There's nothing here to see, a big stretch of lawn, a couple of engineers making their way from one building to another, her dad's fourth spaceship prototype, and –oh, there's Vegeta, staring up at said prototype, looking thoroughly scuffed, doubtless scarcely returned from his latest expedition. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Shaking the curious sense that she knew he'd be here out of her head, she considers Vegeta's unmoving form, perhaps, she imagines, contemplating when he's going to steal the ship and escape without so much as a 'thanks for all the food!' She saunters up to him, expecting that he's probably already well aware of her, even if it appears to all the world as if he's got no clue she's approaching.

* * *

He _is_ aware of her, naturally, from the moment she steps out of the house. The soft-peculiar smell of her laces the breeze, complement to the quicksilver resonance of her _ki_; virtually nil as it is, its flavor is also unusual, distinctively so, and immediately discernible in consequence. The essential (disturbing) implication here is that at some unknowable point these past weeks, he'd made the (obviously involuntary) determination she's _worth_ psychically cataloguing, which her inevitable death at his hands _should_ have rendered pointless, and which his general loathing of her person should have precluded, besides. He has no want of psychic connection with the accursed creature, no matter how faint or fleeting.

And yet, there it is, in spite of everything, the low timbre of her life's energy maintaining a steady pulse at the back of his mind.

The woman is a damn nuisance.

Quite without hesitation, she shimmies up next to him, loosely folds her arms over her stomach, and casually strikes up a conversation.

It appears impossible to impress upon her his desire to be left the hell alone.

"Thinkin' of hitting the road already, huh? And here I'd been betting you'd last at least a couple months before you ran screaming." He does not so much as spare her a glance.

"I am neither running nor screaming, woman."

"It's just a turn of phrase, jerk." He can't resist the tug of amusement at her sour mimicry and finds himself promptly in a Very Bad Mood because of it. "And now that we've got the formalities out of the way…" she begins wryly, "Whadd'ya say to…oh, maybe, giving this baby a test drive?" _That _gets his attention. "Dad's outfitted this one with the same gravity technology he used for the initial prototype –the one Goku used to get to Namek, I mean—but this guy's packing a few flashy new improvements from yours truly. Better field stability, higher-threshold reinforcements made to withstand energy kickbacks of much higher intensity, and so forth. How 'bout it? I can show you how it works, and you can, um, do…push-ups, or whatever it is you do under forces which should, technically, be crushing you into putty where you stand."

It's not the first time he's heard of Capsule Corp's so-called 'gravity technology,' nor that Kakarrot had utilized it for intensive training purposes en route to Namek, on a space ship pioneered and provided, again, by Bulma and her family. He supposes a part of him had recognized the possibility that this vessel might be similarly-equipped. But it hadn't occurred to him that the Earthers would ever allow him to _use_ this technology in the event that it was, figuring it Extremely Likely they had several layers of hi-tech safeguards in place to prevent such a scenario from ever being so much as entertained.

That she's not only allowing, but _inviting_ him to use this machine which will in all likelihood expedite her own destruction is a difficult concept to apprehend –or to take without a healthy portion of misgiving.

"What."

"I know what you're thinking –beauty _and_ brains? Shocking, yes. But true." Sneering disdain tears at his lip.

"The catch, you lunatic female. I demand to know the gods-forsaken catch." She fixes him with a vacant expression. _Oblivious as her damn mother, this one._ "If this is misplaced faith that I will spare your insane species out of gratitude for your overtures of goodwill, allow me to remove your misunderstanding: the instant I ascend and eliminate Kakarrot, your backwater cesspool is dust, space debris, a bad memory –and you with it." Hard reproval swims in her gaze –against that now-familiar backdrop of despondence and disappointment. "If your motivations for the offer are not instead to set me up for some feeble and futile assassination attempt, then _what_ precisely, is the catch?"

"What if there isn't one?" He snorts, skeptical. "What if all I'm thinking is what a good idea it'd be to make an effort to keep you from getting bored, so you won't go around taking all your pent-up _issues_ out on my planet? Or," she smiles unkindly, "what if I'm just trying to be _nice?_" Performing a nimble little twirl on her toes, she rounds on him, steel in her expression. "I haven't forgotten your Great Big Evil Agenda, Vegeta, or that you have to go through Son-kun to carry it out. So maybe this is me letting you know I don't think you've got what it takes to beat him, no matter how much crazy training you do."

For one pristine instant, he sees her death, imagines the perfect, unadulterated silence as her life leaves her –and _there_, a flicker of genuine fear, the instinctive rush of adrenaline; something in his gaze has reached her, and he perceives that she understands quite well the very _real_ peril she's courting –understands it, and brushes it aside, a worry in the wind.

Inexplicably, he approves.

"Oooor…" She takes one, two steps toward him, until she's scarcely an arm's breadth away. "Maybe I've decided to hedge my bets in favor of my 'backwater cesspool.' I've lived here long enough to know that it grows on you –that _Goku_ grows on you, before you've even realized it."

"Your refusal to face reality borders on obscenity."

Ignoring him,

"Whatever the reason, Prince Paranoid—" she punctuates the epithet with the sound rap of her knuckles against the shoulder strap of his armor (eyes going briefly wide when her skin skims along the surface), "—maybe _you_ could try to be a little more gracious when someone offers you a gift, instead of being immediately suspicious I'm about to demand...some terrible price in return…?" He hears the thought taper, watches her brightening with interest, wondering what in the world could possibly be so captivating about his armor that she'd so easily table her ridiculous question (and the rebuke preceding it) in favor of openly staring at her fingers, splayed over the fractured material at the collar.

Intending to snap at her (or at the very least tear off her arm), he settles instead for a program of Thoroughly Unhappy Glowering, no longer certain where this is going when her thumb drags along the fissured plate, lower lip dragged between her teeth by the unfathomable courses of her mind, blue gaze rapt.

With a final (oddly-solicitous) slide of her fingertips over the damage, she snaps her hand back and curtly drops it to her waist, pinning him in the following instant with a level stare. The staid effect is somewhat diminished by the poorly-concealed, livewire excitement of her entire person.

"That's the only armor you've got, huh?"

"If it is?"

"Oh…no reason. Just…I was thinking maybe you'd like to let me borrow it for a bit; doesn't look like it's doing you much good, anyway…" His first impulse is to immediately deny her what she so obviously wants. But he pauses to reconsider; there are possibilities for himself here, as well. For all that she's a shrieking harpy of a woman, she may yet be able to provide him a valuable service.

"You are capable of manufacturing more?" Bulma looks near to exploding with anticipation, in spite of her best efforts to maintain the pretense of cool indifference.

"Well, obviously I've got no idea what sort of materials it's made from, and I couldn't say for sure whether or not we'd be able to engineer a passable facsimile even if I did. I don't know anything about the manufacturing process, either, or if we've got the equipment to handle the production." She sets her hands at her hips, leans forward conspiratorially. "But if you're a betting man, I'd say you're safe putting your money on me. I _am_ a genius, after all."

He's silent long enough for her to draw the conclusion that he means to turn her down. When the hopeful tension of her shoulders slumps, defeated, he takes another moment to bask in the glow of her dismay, and then peels the armor from his back in one fluid motion, dropping it rudely at feet instead of holding it out for her to take. It is (deliberately) _not_ the sort of gesture one expects to elicit a positive response.

Which is only the first of several hundred reasons Vegeta doesn't see it coming.

The woman _launches_ herself at him, a soft curve offensive that takes him entirely –and inexcusably—by surprise. Thin arms band around his neck, and her gratitude peals, shrill, directly into his ear, while he processes the delicate fragrance of her skin, the shamefully not-unpleasant strangeness of her embrace.

There's no time even to forcefully repel her before she's pulling away, her awareness of him eclipsed at once by the discarded object between them. Stooping, incognizant of his fuming turmoil, the woman scoops the armor into her arms, enchanted absorption inscribed into her very being. Beginning to babble excitedly to herself about dimensions and tensile strength and gods-knows-what-else, she glibly turns and hurries off, forgetting him.

Definitely _not_ for the first time, Vegeta's left seething in speechless frustration, wondering what the _fuck_ had just happened.

It isn't until hours later that he remembers she'd run off without showing him how to operate the ship's gravity training program.

* * *

Piccolo feels the light brush of Gohan's _ki_ long before the boy appears. When he does, the kid, well-mannered as ever, cuts him a short bow, one chubby fist cradled against the opposite palm. Silence swathes the clearing, settling against the cool quiet of night.

As always, Gohan is the one who pierces through it.

"I started derivatives today, Mr. Piccolo." And so the litany of Gohan's day begins; the kid hadn't respected his demands for peace and quiet from the outset, but recently his heir could _not_ be shut up. Not even the threat of a proper beating fazes him anymore, instead effecting only a blinding, mega-watt smile, demonstrating Piccolo's degradation for all to see. He knows it doesn't bode well for his Evil Overlord aspirations that he's no longer capable of frightening a six-year-old.

_But…_some alien touch of his mind doggedly teases into coherence, _this has become a thing to live for_.

Even as he begrudgingly accepts this for the truth that it is, he makes a mental note to begin the task of _murdering _Nail. ASAP. These gooey-sweet sentiments are giving him identity issues, dammit.

"Mr. Piccolo?"

"What." It comes out a bit more gruffly than he intends, but Gohan's impervious, his mind clearly elsewhere. He begins shuffling nervously over the loose dirt at his feet and self-consciously toeing at an invisible rock, eyes downcast and cheeks flush. The Demon King braces himself.

"I…wanted to thank you…" One at a time, the kid's tiny fists lock into a death grip around the lower hem of his _gi_, compulsively clenching, "…for saving my life, I mean, when we were fighting Mr. Vegeta's, uhh, his friend. I never got to say I'm sorry for not being strong enough—"

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, kid." Piccolo rebukes. Then, facing the stretch of night-dark sky where Earth's satellite should be, where twice now it had been blown to dust to save the world from the most peaceable Saiyans ever to've lived, "You did good. Better still on Namek. It's no wonder the Vegetable Prince is so interested in your development."

Meekly, "He's interested in my development?"

"He's definitely keeping tabs. I don't know how or when Short Stuff learned to read _ki_, but that's definitely what he's doing; I'd suspected as much back on Namek, but it's only since we've been back that I've been certain. You hop up a few levels, and he redoubles whatever the hell training he's doing out there. Pretty sure he knows you're the one to watch out for if Goku doesn't make it back." Gohan pouts, disapproving. Piccolo scowls, put out. "Quit moping. You know just as well as I do we couldn't get rid of your constant headache of a father if we wanted to." He's expecting the kid to break out into one of those knowing grins, intuitively reading Piccolo's derision as underlying confidence in and/or concern for his idiot sire, which he only even acknowledges because it doesn't appear Nail will stop _poking_ at it until he does.

Instead, Gohan's face draws down further.

And then, a question he doesn't expect: "Is this the way it's always going to be, Mr. Piccolo?" It's a hard, heavy matter for the boy to lay before him; he can hear it in the fine tremor of Gohan's voice. "Is this the way it always _has_ been?"

"Why, don't think you can tough it, kid?"

Earnestly,

"I don't want to have to." He understands now, more clearly than ever, that Gohan is _not_ his father, and never will be. Nor will he ever be anything close to Piccolo's envisioning, which is a damn, crying shame. The potential to rule with the whole damn Universe under his thumb, and the kid just wants to learn numbers and nature and get home in time to keep his mom happy. There's just no drilling any wickedness into him.

Quietly, the Demon King sighs; he's known as much for a while, probably since the beginning, but it's no easy, trifling thing to accept. This had _not_ been in the Diabolical Master Plan.

"Can't say you won't have to, Gohan. Your dad and disaster go way, way back." The child deflates, just a little.

After a moment's pause,

"Yeah, I guess I already knew that." The kid draws in a slow, deep breath. Then, the line of his mouth twitches up into that dangerously _Saiyan_ smirk. "But next time, it'll be different." The perfect-placid steadiness of Gohan's _ki_ might've unsettled him, had he not known from the start that his pupil would one day surpass them all. "Next time, I'm going to be ready."

Piccolo grins, pleased.

_I don't doubt it, kid._

* * *

When he awakens after what feels like weeks, it's to soft sheets and warmly smiling faces –and, unless his nose is lying, an _enormous, heavenly-smelling feast_!

Goku likes it here already.

* * *

::

for those of you wondering what happened to all the promised scenes referred to in the previous chapter's preview, now seems like a good time to warn you that those things always end up being more loose guidelines than actual tidings of What's to Come.

AND.

in case you were curious -i'm definitely taking vegeta-zarbon relationship cues from vejiitasei ascendant. they are secretly bestest pals, dagflabbit. FO' REALZ.

also.

i know it probably feels like we're slogging along at snail's pace, but that's only because we are. it's (mostly) deliberate, though; there's 130-some days worth of Untapped Tension Potential before the android saga gets underway, and i'd just like to give that due attention before we slither Plot-ward. i figure there'll be one, possibly two more chaps of pre-android saga shenanigans, after which i promise Things of Substance _will _actually start happening.

maybe.

next chapter: goku struggles with the task of dressing himself, the nameks search for a New Home, bulma barricades herself in the lab, porunga cameos, and vegeta steals a space ship.


	4. such cretinous incongruences

i think we've all learned by now that my Tentative Deadlines are NOT TO BE TRUSTED.

and also that my ability to churn out chapters quickly is NON-EXISTENT.

ALAS.

[i'm gonna make him a disclaimer he can't refuse.]

* * *

**chapter 4**

The Prince of Saiyans discovers himself at a furious impasse.

…with himself.

Over that _galling_, **wretched** excuse of a woman, for whom his distaste grows unfathomably greater every passing moment.

Two days now he's lingered at the compound, wasting precious training time, scowling at anyone who comes near, trying –and failing—to maintain the pretense he's meditating and not **waiting** for that _infuriating_ woman to come to her senses and recall her offer.

Seeking her out himself to remind her is out of the question; such an errand would be a great deal beneath his dignity. Vegeta's no supplicant come petitioning, and he means to suffer no further affront on Bulma's account. And, royal lineage aside, he's made a careful habit of not treating with the Imminently Deceased. With _prey_.

Nevertheless, (as testament to all of the many, many ways Zarbon had infected him), Vegeta finds himself nursing a most un-Saiyan sense of curiosity over the possibilities of the Briefs' gravity machine; try as he might, he can't shake his preoccupation with the prospect that he, like Kakarrot before him, might so rapidly and so _enormously_ enlarge his power level –and perhaps even divine the coveted key to ascension in the process.

Imagining himself ready to challenge the peasant fool to a rematch immediately after his revival consumes the Prince's every thought, and so, by consequence, does that infernal machine; appealing to his better sense about the matter has accomplished little beyond strengthening his irritation –he _knows_, after all, that while access to the technology might accelerate the growth of his power, one way or other, sooner or later, he would –inevitably—achieve his birthright, gravity machine or no. He doesn't _need_ it to beat Kakarrot.

But Bulma's wretched enticement, offered allegedly without ulterior motives or expectation of reciprocal advantage, holds him here in unbreakable thrall.

He _has_ speculated on the likelihood of treachery, the possibility that the woman had only tendered her offer at all in a sly, premeditated bid to get her hands on his armor; ultimately, however, he discards the notion. That Bulma Briefs is capable of the deception he has no doubt, but long reflection on their encounter inclines him to believe her sudden preoccupation with his armor had been both genuine and genuinely spontaneous. But more than that, he's gradually learning to trust the Earthers' conspicuous lack of even a fledgling _shred_ of preservation instinct; they've withheld nothing, providing for him a place to live, ample food to eat, genial –albeit very much unwanted—companionship, all despite continued professions of his intent to annihilate the lot of them (and full appreciation of his fondness for spilling blood, besides) –why then, should he question the woman's sincerity in this matter? If she wished to play an active role in facilitating the extinction of her species, who was he to protest?

Out of consideration for the general uselessness of her people, Vegeta'd given her a generous interval (the full breadth of _two days_) to deliver, prowling the lawn before the ship in anticipation of her emergence, convinced his presence alone would be sufficient to jog her –clearly deficient—memory.

Except…she never shows, making of his generous gesture an exercise in gravest futility.

When at last he reaches the limits of his patience, sometime late into the second afternoon of his seething patrol, he resolves that Bulma Briefs is going to be very, _very_ sorry she left him to idle for so long in unanswered expectation –and doubly so for forcing _him_ to come to _her_, in an ever-lengthening chronicle of outrage.

Concentrating, he sets to searching her out, honing in on the flimsy-strange energy signature that belongs to her, and her alone…_**there**_—

"Yoo-hoooo, Vegetaaa!" As ever, he can't seem to stop himself from mentally _squirming _at the sound of that voice. Focus shattered, he slips the Briefs matriarch a menacing glare over his shoulder –the very glare, in fact, he's been using to terrorize stray, brave, or waywardly curious Capsule Corp employees since he'd first taken up roost on the lawn, in open defiance of the woman's repeated instructions to treat her peons with some measure of 'common courtesy.'

He supposes he should be prepared by now for this sunny female's sanguine unflappability, but he instead takes umbrage at the woman's dam, upon whom even his fiercest demonstrations remain unaccountably, utterly without effect. If anything, his murderous bent seems to amuse her; when she reaches him, she smiles brightly and pats him on the shoulder, tittering softly.

"You're just so _intense_, aren't you?" Clasping her hands beneath her chin in an obnoxious exhibition of puerile delight, "Oh, it's just been too long since Bulma's brought home such an enthusiastic admirer!" Something in Vegeta goes cold, gives a shiver of pure, existential terror: this brain-damaged human could not _possibly_ be suggesting he, Prince of the mightiest warrior race in recent memory, had…**intentions** toward her infuriating daughter beyond the ultimate object of said offspring's violent death at his eager hand. "Yamcha's darling, of course, but I _do_ believe they've been seeing other people, and Bulma's always had a thing for dark, mysterious types, and I'll just be darned if that isn't you to a 't!'" Still suppressing the outrage of her ridiculous observation, and her corollary comparison of himself with –if he isn't mistaken—the woman's dead, weakling mate, Vegeta remains resolutely silent, refusing to respond to these confounding reports.

Not that this deters her; she chatters on about gods only know what for long enough that he lapses into a sort of horrified trance. Bulma's entire family have apparently no concept of brevity or discretion.

Eventually, abruptly, she changes the subject, though there's nothing to suggest she's done so to spare him further agitation. Or that she's even _perceived_ his agitation.

"You'll have to give Bulma some time, dear. She's just like her father, I'm afraid; gets lost in machines, forgets the rest of the world when she sets herself on a new project. But never you mind, sweetie, she'll happen along sooner or later, when she runs low on caffeine or remembers it's been a while since she's seen the sun." Setting her hands at her hips in a manner uncannily like the woman's, "Whatever it is you're waiting around for from Bulma, surely you have time to break for a quick meal? I've been relearning a dish Chi Chi taught me to make, years ago, and I've just gotten the recipe back up to snuff. What do you say?" Instinct entreats him to turn her down, though his stomach raises an immediate, impassioned objection.

Hating himself, hating this mindless female, her hideous daughter, all of her useless warrior friends, the whole of her idiotic species, this _entire cursed planet_, Vegeta spits out a non-committal 'feh,' which the chipper Mrs. Briefs somehow (annoyingly) interprets correctly (_dammit_) as assent, and by strength of will alone manages not to blast her into oblivion when she claps excitedly and emits a high-pitched squeal that has him inadvertently cringing.

"Oh, you won't be sorry!" She elatedly guarantees, while Vegeta darkly concludes he already is.

* * *

Far above the terrestrial plane, hovering just beyond the perimeter of Heaven, the Demon King feels very much out-of-place.

Piccolo had had absolutely no intention of coming anywhere near this God-awful place, refusing Muuri point-blank the night before when he'd been asked to accompany the Elders to seek Kami's guidance in locating a suitable new home.

And yet…here he is, at arguably his least favorite venue _ever_, having set out for Heaven automatically as Popo'd arrived at the Briefs' terrarium to escort the small contingent, as though he'd actually meant to come all along, even though he's pretty damn sure he _hadn't_.

Still more out of character, as they'd reached the Lookout, Piccolo'd had to check himself, pausing and then deliberately hanging back after instinctively starting to follow the other Namekians onto the platform. Which is conspicuously odd, since it's the _opposite_ of the instinct he's had toward this place since –well, since before the beginning of his present incarnation. The Demon King holds no dominion where treads God, he reminds himself crossly, and he'll be damned if he ever gives Kami the satisfaction of willingly traversing the limits of his domain.

The almost-incident has him impulsively blaming the psychic 'split' in his personality, when he remembers that, for going on a month now, he hasn't felt so much as a shiver of the Other's consciousness. The spiritual fracture had _finally_ mended, closed over, and –save for the occasional, involuntary intrusion of his pupil—the sanctified privacy of his mind is again absolute. Yet, on such days as today, when he finds himself making an impromptu social call on his lesser half, it becomes resoundingly clear that, though the entity that was 'Nail' is no more, with him had gone some crucial part of Piccolo; he's changed, no longer consummately himself.

_The price I pay for power_, he mentally grouches.

Assembled in a crude ring near the edge of the platform, alternatively making hushed conversation amongst themselves or gracious inquiries of God's flower-watering stooge, Muuri and the other Elders wait patiently for Kami to put in an appearance. (The self-important bastard always was one for making others wait...)

Gohan's there, too, naturally, running amuck with the runt. Wherever Piccolo went, Gohan was almost certain to be within spitting distance, and wherever Gohan could be found, so too could Dende; they were sort of a package deal these days. It's not exactly the _ideal_ situation, but Piccolo's learning to make the most of it; at least with Dende there to defray the kid's pinballing attentions, Gohan isn't always talking his ear off or insisting the Demon King join him in playing such reputation-shattering games as 'tag' or 'hide-and-go-seek.'

Suddenly—

"WOW!" Piccolo snaps his gaze askance, settles on the diminutive figure poised at the lip of the Lookout, eyes wide with astonishment and stubby green finger leveled at the thick layer of clouds directly beneath them. "You can see the _whole world_ from here!" Dende exclaims, exuberant. Gohan skids to a halt, pulling up beside him, and peers over the ledge.

"I don't see anything but clouds." The kid pouts, petulant. Dende doesn't respond, his eyes darting frenetically in every direction, disbelief and joyous amazement warring for primacy on his face.

While Piccolo begins reevaluating the sproutling's usefulness, the never-punctual deity of Earth furtively makes his entrance, and wastes no time announcing himself:

"Child," he speaks, and all eyes –including Dende's—shift back to take in the person of God. Kami's focus, meanwhile, belongs exclusively to the runt. "What is it you See?" Sputtering as Kami approaches, Dende begins twiddling his thumbs, and Piccolo recognizes the nervous affectation as Gohan's. "No need to be alarmed, Child." God disarmingly assures. "I'm only curious." After a moment of anxious hesitation, the little Namekian casts his gaze back over the horizon.

"P-people," Dende stammers, "so-so _many_ people, and birds and beasts, and…and mountains and forests and vast oceans, little villages and big cities and…and…things I don't have names for, like thick, white sand that freezes, and great, _huge_ houses made of hard earth—" The runt's speech comes to an abrupt close, hands fisting into the fabric of his cloak –another habit likely rubbed into his repertoire via Gohan's influence.

"Snow," Kami indicates the icy tundra, "and those," he points here and there, Dende following the line of his finger with rapt attention, "are castles, built of stone, to house self-styled rulers of men." Gohan looks lost, as do nearly all of the Elders. Except Muuri. He beams proudly, even as Kami smiles down at the runt with bright eyes. "And you, young Dende, have an exceptional gift."

"He's a Dragon Type, just like his father." Muuri reveals. The unfamiliar term means nothing to Piccolo, but he surmises from context that 'Dragon Type' likely has something to do with the runt's ability to track the goings-on of the earthly-bound –a phenomenon previously limited to Popo, Kami, and himself (–and for some reason, _Goku_, but that's an aggravating story for another day). He wouldn't be surprised if the sprout's freshly minted healing powers –on par with senzu beans in effectiveness, if not quite as fast-acting—didn't factor into this equation somehow, too.

"Indeed he is." God affirms, sans elaboration. "It's no easy feat, to perceive terrestrial affairs from Heaven. Not everyone can See as you do, Child."

"I definitely can't." Gohan volunteers good-naturedly. "I don't see anything." Dende flushes with pleasure.

"I'd originally planned to wait another few years for him to be ready, but since Saichorou-sama was forced to unlock his potential so early, I intend to start his training right after we've settled into our new home, in another few months." Muuri turns to his son. "Only the basics, of course, exercises to help ease you into your new power."

"Hmmm…yes." His lesser half mumbles, again with nothing instructive to contribute. "I have a funny feeling we've yet to see the end of your talents, little one." Kami has that annoying, prescient twinkle in his eye, and Piccolo understands the intimation as more than idle conjecture; God is dropping prophetic breadcrumbs, foreshadowing some unknowable future –even though the only one who could possibly benefit from the wrinkled geezer's too-vague tip-off is the wrinkled old geezer himself. Boundlessly useless and self-aggrandizing, this deity of theirs. "Now, friends," Kami leans against his staff, "speaking of your new home, what say we turn to the day's business? I've pulled a few strings and managed to get a few good leads on two or three planets suitable for immediate settling, and if we could all adjourn to the temple proper, Mr. Popo and I will be glad to show you what we can of the candidates, limited though our guidance may prove." He gestures to the djinn, who placidly leads off toward –if Piccolo's guess is correct—the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, where Kami gets up to most of his rule-breaking.

Watching the others trail after Popo, Gohan and Dende giggling as they bring up the rear, he waits until none save he and God remain.

"'Pulled a few strings,' huh? Bet by now you owe quite a few favors, old man." Once upon a time, Piccolo had _literally_ been in the same shoes as the deity before him–and he knows himself far better than to believe that Kami hasn't been dipping his righteous-godly fingers into some seriously forbidden cookie jar or other to scrape up his measly 'few good leads.' "Who knew deities were allowed to broker real estate?" God smiles, ever fucking serene-like.

"There's no shame in doing what one can to help friends in need, Ma Junior."

"Careful with the handle, Kami. You'll make me nostalgic for old times." Something sly worms its way into his counterpart's expression.

"You've come a long way, haven't you?" Kami muses dreamily, apropos of nothing. "That you consider yourself beyond your old darkness speaks to the enormity of your progress."

"Don't patronize me." Piccolo snaps. "I'm not so beyond my darkness that I'm above offing a scrawny, decrepit old fraud."

"By all means, my son," he performs a shallow bob of a curtsy, "do feel free to step into Heaven." Both are well aware the Demon King will be doing no such thing, that the invitation is no invitation at all, and instead a challenge. "You're always _most_ welcome." Piccolo almost wants to, if for no other reason than to wipe the smug grin off his face.

"Tch. Don't you have some cosmic bylaws to break, _God_?" The title is venom on his tongue. "Go see to your guests."

But Kami has one last specious-friendly dart to cast—

"Sure you won't stop in for some brown rice tea? Mr. Popo makes an excellent brew." His previous incarnation had spent a few unhappy centuries holed up against his will in an electric rice cooker; it's no big leap for him to understand Kami's choice of brew as a deliberate –if oblique—sling.

Narrowing his eyes,

"I don't have to touch down to fry your ass, Kami." Apparently tickled pink by Piccolo's hostility, Earth's deity quakes with quiet laughter, shaking his head and raising a hand in farewell as he turns to leave and join the others.

The Demon King considers razing God's well-tended gardens.

* * *

The meal does little to abate Vegeta's antagonism, but _does_ crystallize his resolve; no sooner has he left the dinner table than he's zeroing in on the woman's offensively negligible _ki, _and after that it's only a matter of following the vapor-fine trajectory where it leads him –which is through an out-building in the restricted-access 'engineering wing' of the grounds, past several employees who either scurry immediately out of his way or attempt weak protestations as he barrels heedlessly by, down three or four flights of stairs (he's well underground by the time he senses he's on her level, though he can tell the facilities penetrate to a much greater subterranean depth), and weaving his way along one twisting corridor after another until he comes at last to a mechanized entryway encased in a sturdy, slate wall of metal, words he recognizes as prohibitive to 'non-authorized personnel' emblazoned across its median in bright, bold lettering.

He can _feel_ her, light, teasing touches of her _ki_ fluttering wild at the farthest limits of perception; she's somewhere just beyond this threshold, secreted away in her mechanical sanctuary, blithely unaware of the deadly aggression she's provoked, taking for granted the safety, the impenetrability of her steely stronghold.

A fatally false impression on her part, and easy enough to remedy on his. It's little trouble to simply remove the door, to fit his fist through the metal barrier, brace his fingers against the surface plating on the opposite side, and cleanly pull it out of the wall, wicked pleasure lighting through him as the frame fractures, begins to buckle.

The screaming picks up even as he's dislodging his fist and flinging the door carelessly aside, where it slams into the ground with an ear-splitting crash, kicking up dust and debris as it craters through concrete, smashes through the floor, and free-falls to the level below.

When Vegeta finally turns his attention to the interior, he takes in the vast array of gutted machinery and the repellent stink of oil, grease, smoke and sweat. Then there are the dozen or so shrieking, nameless human scientists ducking behind desks in fright, tripping over stray wiring, evacuating through another door toward the rear of the workshop, all like the spineless fleas they are.

And then there's Bulma Briefs, standing stunned in the midst of it all, one hand clutched absently around some heavy-looking tool, gaping at him in shock –and _just_ shock; there's not a whit of the wailing panic exhibited by her underlings. And even that vanishes after a moment, giving way to brilliant anger, again shorn entirely of rational awe or predictable alarm.

It…_bothers_ him, her outright _refusal_ to treat him in a manner befitting one such as he, who could –and definitely _would_—bring her life to a summary finish with remorseless, unflinching ease. Who had just torn a _two-ton_ _door out of the damn wall_!

She wastes no time ruining what remains of his satisfaction, striding recklessly forward and screeching at him for destroying her lab at an ear-fracturing pitch. He responds in kind, yelling heatedly back at her that if she doesn't want him to _have_ to go around destroying things, she should maybe consider being available to cater to his every whim, inspiring her to impressive new levels of pink rage –and, remarkably, to (attempted) _violence_. Whatever metal instrument she hurls at him sails harmlessly past; to start, her aim is abysmal, though even had it struck true his ki shield would most certainly've absorbed the full brunt of the impact. The tool clatters to the ground somewhere behind him, and the woman stomps her foot in a childish fit of temper.

Finally, as he's suffering from whatever madness has him unconsciously likening her to some furious warrior flush from battle—

"FOR FUCK'S SAKES, VEGETA, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU _WANT_?"

An unprecedented situation: he's completely lost track of the reason he'd come. Put on the spot, he fumes in silence, unable to reconcile himself to this astonishing turn of events; she drives him to such distraction that he's completely taken leave of his senses.

Before he knows it, he's tearing right out of the lab, rocketing through four levels of workshops and then the domed roof of the building and causing as much damage as possible on the way out, purely out of spite.

It has the desired effect: he hears her scream of wordless fury as he flies for the nearest stretch of badlands.

* * *

Goku's been manfully struggling to pull himself into the outfit for going on a full hour –or probably closer to four hours, as they measure time here. However long it's actually been, he decides, it _feels_ like it's taking for_ever_. As someone who's always kinda thought clothes get in the way of fun stuff, and seized every opportunity to wear as little of it as possible, he's beginning to believe this really isn't worth all the hassle.

Still, Chi Chi's insisted –many, many times—that he can't just go around naked whenever he pleases, and she _especially_ insists that nudity before strangers is a no-no. Someone had gone to all the trouble of making this for him, besides, the product of long hours of custom fittings to shape to contours and body proportions never before encountered on this planet. His intuition suggests sternly that it'd be rude to cast all this hard work aside. (Weirdly, his intuition sounds an awful lot like Chi Chi.)

While he continues trying to make heads or tails out of which piece of his costume goes where, he lets his mind drift over the past several weeks, the exciting strangeness of his new friends and their equally strange planet, with its endless landscape of towering purple rocks jutting up into the vault of a creamy orange sky, where –like Namek—one of two butter-yellow stars seems always to be shining. (It'd taken him a long while to adjust to roughly three weeks of continuous sunlight, punctuated by only two-ish days of semi-darkness. After his initial comatose interlude, he'd gone long, insomniatic stretches without sleep, hard-pressed to accustom himself to a world without night.)

The air's pretty dry, and the wind has a tendency to bite, but overall the weather's nice enough in 'The Settlement' (which is as much of a name as he's been able to get for the Yardrats' sprawling colony), though every now and again, in the course of his daily jaunts (undertaken out into the wilderness against the warnings of his friendly hosts), he'll run across the odd titanic storm -wild, heavyweight typhoons, or great, boisterous blizzards, which make for choice sport in a world without sparring partners. (What he wouldn't _give_ to test his new strength against Piccolo, who's bound to've learned some new tricks at Kaio-sama's, or even Vegeta, if the proud warrior could be persuaded to mellow out a bit; the Prince is certain to've reached a whole new plateau of power himself, having recently been resurrected from death, and Goku can't _wait_ to fight him again –although, admittedly, he'd rather it were possible to just have a friendly match, without all the death threats and doom-talk.)

Even if he's got no one to match himself against for the time being, though, what with the Yardrats having almost no _ki_ whatsoever, his fishy friends are not completely without martial ability: many of them practice crude defensive arts, and while the forms are slow, meditative, fashioned primarily to focus the mind instead of to strengthen the body, Goku's always happy to add another combat style to his inventory, and right now what he needs isn't additional strength, anyway, but careful, diligent mental focus to contain –and later wield—his own radically temperamental _ki_.

In fact, until he's better used to harnessing all that angry, ominous energy, he plans to avoid transforming altogether. It wouldn't be safe –not for him, and not for his alien friends—to tap that reserve without full knowledge of where the power had come from, and how he'd been able to call it out to begin with. And the only way to _get_ that knowledge, he knows, is to relocate his center, which had loosed and slipped its unshakable seat and gotten itself lodged somewhere deep and dark after his battle with Freeza. What small amount of it he's been able to nudge back into place has been largely thanks to the Yardrats, whose true abilities, as it happens, aren't physical at all –but psychic.

For starters, they're completely telepathic: not a one of them has spoken an actual word since he's woken up, so as best as he can figure, they _can't_ speak. They _can_ make sounds –and _do_, whirring or clicking noises that mean mostly nothing, but Goku's glad for them anyway, and he suspects they only bother with the noises for this reason, to make the whole 'telepathy' business slightly less strange for him. He's always been a little psychic, to some very, very basic extent, but it's not a skill he's ever honed for interaction –only for sensing and hiding _ki_, only to bolster his physical strength. So it _is_ strange for him, their psychic 'speech,' which isn't true 'speech' by any measure, but instead transmitted sensation, somehow more expressive and easy to interpret than any words he's ever heard.

They've attempted to explain to him several times how this process works, thinking maybe he'd like to learn the 'language,' but it'd all been waaaaaaaay over his head, and his friends had eventually given it up for a lost cause.

Goku _has_ learned, though, that the Yardrats' telepathy is only the tip of the iceberg where their psychic techniques are concerned –their entire society moves to the rhythm of their minds, connected in a vast network so in sync that they don't even differentiate between individuals; each understands himself only as one semi-independent part of a cooperative whole. He thinks they would be super efficient, super _scary_ opponents, and decides the Ginyu Force was lucky they were put out of commission before they made it here and had their own minds turned against them. Or had their abilities to perform higher order functions simply…switched off. Permanently. Or even –he grimaces at the thought– had their brains liquefied in their skulls.

Goku isn't much interested in being taught how to manipulate or destroy anyone else from within; he definitely prefers to fight things out in the flesh. But there _is_ one technique he really-really-really wants to learn, which Matcha (as he's taken to calling his escort, whose green-mottled skin evokes fond memories of Chi Chi's delicious matcha dango) had mentioned in passing just the other day: 'instant transmission.' With it, he could go _anywhere_, on this world, in this solar system, in the _Universe_, so long as he has a familiar _ki_ to hone in on, and all in the blink of an eye. It is not, Matcha had explained, moving 'fast'_ —_it's moving 'instantaneously,' hence the label.

The appeal of the technique had hit him immediately; as the levels of his opponents climb higher and higher, speed becomes more and more crucial in determining the victor. And, he reflects gravely, with a technique like that, he could avoid any more tragic situations like the one in which he'd found himself when the Saiyans had arrived: himself, unforgivably late, and most of his friends, dead because of it.

He hadn't had to do much pleading to be shown the ropes, either; the second he'd demonstrated an interest, Matcha'd readily and happily volunteered to teach him. He'd been warned that it'd likely take him upwards of a couple years to master, but he hadn't blinked an eye at the prospect; he'll miss his friends back home, and his wife and son especially, but this is one ability he reasons he can't pass up learning, both to satisfy his own irresistible appetite for new skills _and_ to ensure he's better able to protect all his loved ones in the event of future threats. In the meantime, while he's figuring out how to 'fold space,' as Matcha had put it, he'll also be hard at work getting a handle on what it means to be -as both Freeza and Vegeta had called it- a 'Super Saiyan,' so that by the time he's ready to go home, his dangerous control issues will've been well laid to rest.

And his instant transmission training's set to start today! Right now! Or anyway, as soon as he manages to fit himself into this confusing, frustrating, headache-inducing outfit of his…

When, in spite of his valiant efforts, another several moments tick by without success, he wraps his midsection in the largest swath of fabric and leans around the threshold of the door, where Matcha waits, eternally patient. Goku announces himself by way of a sheepish chuckle, which the alien receives with a broad, thin-lipped smile of its own.

The cordial offer of assistance impresses itself into his mind, and he nods, one hand braced in embarrassment at the back of his head. Embarrassment, because…well, because it's not exactly the first time he's needed help getting into these same clothes. (And he suspects it probably won't be the last, either.)

"Thanks a million," he says, earnestly, "Think I'm too excited to remember what goes where." Matcha produces a high-pitched, fluttering trill Goku decides must be laughter, and waddles his way into the room to help.

* * *

When he cools down enough to revisit the matter, several days after the fact, he returns to Capsule Corp thinking it best he'd forgotten to ask Bulma to show him how to man the gravity machine. He never seems to accomplish anything with the damned woman as it is; stalemate seems the only outcome they'll have. Even supposing he'd gotten her into the ship to follow through on her offer, he has to imagine they'd have ended up in yet another gridlock standoff, which would've been to no one's benefit. And, quite possibly, to her untimely death.

So the Prince goes to see her father instead.

Without preamble, he demands to be taken through the ship and shown around, instructed in the proper use of the navigation system _and_ the gravity apparatus. Dr. Briefs looks up at him, his gaze bespeaking vague awareness awash in a sea of owlish vacuity.

"Interested in gravitational physics, my boy?" Vegeta mulls the question over, determinedly ignoring the 'my boy' for the sake of his maneuver; the object is to get around the woman, to _avoid_ having to see her, and murdering her sire would surely prove counter to this end.

At length, "You could say that."

"Well why didn't you say so! Of course I'll show you around." Dr. Briefs is already on his feet and breezing past a mystified Vegeta, who'd come into this fully expecting he'd have to _persuade_ the doddering fool to give him the grand tour (portending the happy potential for wanton destruction); instead, the old man demonstrates more of the strange, impulsive openness of Bulma's people, and hops to comply without a second thought.

As he gives Vegeta his back and begins to lead the way out of the lab, the Prince's gaze lights onto the feline slung languidly over his shoulder; the little bundle of fur promptly puffs to twice its original size, and from somewhere within that overwrought mess of hair, the creature emits a low, warning hiss, instinctively responding to the threat he innately embodies. It's the most sane reaction he's gotten since he arrived on this ridiculous planet. "Although if you want the newest specs, you'll have to see Bulma for details; 'fraid I haven't gotten around to checking out the renovations yet, myself." The man adds, a belated afterthought, either unaware of or unconcerned with his pet's poor manners.

"I will bear this in mind." Vegeta promises, tuning the scientist out automatically as he slips into that incomprehensible, mumbling technical vernacular, having learned by now that the woman's father can rattle off inconsequence just as well and incessantly as she, the difference being that his offspring commands attention and engagement, while the old fool commands only tedium and slow-boiling irritation.

Nevertheless, he decides, the weed-scented old man is much preferable to the blue-eyed alternative.

—whom he now appears able to summon by thought alone.

There's the telltale frisson spidering its way across his skin, a psychic pinch at the base of skull, and then—

"Dad?" The woman rounds the corner, pulling up short as she absorbs his presence at her father's back, hair-trigger suspicion alighting in the lambent blue of her eyes, mitigated only by momentary bemusement; he fixes her with an openly disdainful expression, cursing his bad luck.

Of _course_ she would choose _now_ to vacate her sanctuary. Her knack for disrupting his life proves, yet again, impeccable.

"What's up?" She queries, directing the question at her father. Before he can even begin to respond, it clicks: "Oh, papa, please tell me you're _not_ taking him to see the ship!" There's a weary note of entreaty in the admonition, edged with grimmest resignation.

Dr. Briefs disaffectedly strokes the feline at his shoulder.

"Come now, Bulma, what's the harm in letting the young man have a look around?" The woman transitions smoothly from incredulity at her sire to burning reproach, which she makes a point of casting toward _him_. Proximity gifts him with the opportunity to read her present indignation as more than merely the product of the moment; she's _radiating_ anger, kept diligently fresh over the course of several days –likely since he'd (literally) torn into her lab to demand an audience. He can tell she's raring to mete out punishment.

"Oh, _I'll_ show him around, papa." Oblivious entirely to the thickening tension between the Prince and his intolerable offspring, Dr. Briefs raises as much objection to this ill-meant offer as he had to Vegeta's impromptu demand to be shown how to use the ship –which is to say, none at all.

"Really?" Smiling crookedly, the old man is already twirling back in the direction from whence he'd come. "Well, if it's not too much trouble. I'll just be off, then." In the same blasé-absent way he appears to perform most –if not _all_—tasks, her father ambles away, puffing his noxious smoke and mumbling to himself all the while.

Vegeta's enmity for the woman peaks; this is precisely the situation he'd hoped to forestall by seeking out her father. He's no desire to endure more of her banshee screeching about his most recent 'misbehavior.' Honestly, he hadn't even _killed_ anyone –a supremely magnanimous gesture, if he does say so himself.

Although, if she starts in on him, rectifying his lapse of 'humanity' is no difficult matter…

But she leads off with naught save a dirty look, and he follows her, half suspecting she means to let the issue lie –until they clear what he takes to be her estimation of her father's earshot, at any rate, briefly after which she slows to a stop, quiet for an introspective moment. Then she pivots, battle in her eyes.

"Let's get one thing straight, buster: you can't go around _blowing things up_ every time you want something and expect I'll just jump to do your bidding. That is NOT the way things work here."

"I don't know; this tack appears to be working well enough so far." Looking quite like she might be reevaluating her own 'no killing of guests' policy, the woman sets herself on the defensive.

"This is only happening right now because my dad's the most absent-minded man on the planet and you've been known to fry things that annoy you and there's no way I'd trust that combination alone in our very expensive, soundproof getaway vehicle; and this is only happening _at all_ because I already generously offered to show you the ship. Which you could maybe have _considered_ BEFORE you decided to tear my door out of the wall!"

Nastily, "That would hardly have gotten the point across." The mild anticipatory thrill Vegeta feels at her militant anger fades in its turn; regrettably, he reminds himself, this mouthy she-devil is no warrior, and would hardly be worth the sport.

"If the point is that you're a socially retarded ASSWIPE, then congratulations: message received! But **dammit**, Vegeta, there're engineers all over the place; you could've asked _any one_ of them, they'd have put you through to me right away—"

"I do not 'ask' for anything." He cuts in.

"Yeah, I've noticed." Bulma sneers, her insolence ever his peerless, dutiful companion. "And now _I'm_ 'not asking' you, either, when I tell you to stay the hell out of my lab until you figure out a less barbaric way to get my attention." She gives him a peremptory look to kill the retort on his tongue, and stomps off in a huff.

He hangs back, sorting through a catalogue of options for her slow, painful death until she glides to a halt and shows him her profile and a lifted brow.

"You coming?"

Vowing silently that Bulma Briefs _will_ be made to answer for her endless impudence, Vegeta nods, glaring evenly at her as he follows.

* * *

The malevolence of her manner evaporates the instant they set foot inside the vessel; she's suddenly glowing with pride at the opportunity to showcase her (and her father's) mechanical achievement. He absently records the bright excitement of her visage, scowling when she turns the force of it on him.

"If there's been anything good about all this crazy alien business, it's gotta be this baby. The ship we took to Namek was apparently how Kami-sama came to Earth, and we were in kind of a hurry to get going by the time we got hold of it –what with _you_ already having such a big head start on us and all—so dad and I didn't have too much time to check it out, but fortunately there was still your big-angry-bald-friend's pod…which I may or may not have accidentally destroyed," she coughs, "but that turned out to be an unexpected windfall for us; thinking no one'd be able to salvage anything useful from the scraps, the government willingly handed the wreckage over to us, and dad –being the mad genius he is— pieced ol' Humpty-Dumpty back together again, no problem. Supplementing what little we were able to learn from the schematics of Kami-sama's ship, dad's team built Earth's very first working, long-range spacecraft. Once again, Capsule Corp is light-years ahead of the competition!" She makes a god-awful cackling noise, and he makes a mental note to discourage any future episodes of her happiness at all costs. "Who knows when Capsule Corp would've looked to the stars if you guys hadn't shown your ugly faces…? Plus, I guess it's nice to know where Goku's from; I always felt like the universe owed us an explanation for that bizarro kid." He snorts; of _course_ this overconfident female feels the universe has obligations to her. "Although," here she cuts him a Look tipped with poison, "I'd've _preferred_ to learn about his heritage without any of our friends having to _die_."

He doesn't fight the devilish grin nicking up at both corners of his mouth.

"It's hardly my problem your species is afflicted with both insanity _and_ pathetic weakness."

"You really _don't_ want to know how to use the GR, do you?"

"Renege if you must; I'm anticipating your word will turn out to be every bit as hollow as that head of yours." She stands with small hands balling spasmodically into fists at her side, jaw clenched.

"I'd _always_ intended to keep my word, dammit," she snaps out stiffly, responding to his unspoken accusation, "I got distracted is all. If you would only've _waited_ a while—"

"I waited patiently for _days_—"

Incredulously, "Ripping a door out of the wall was you waiting '_patiently_?'" Then, falling back suddenly and setting her ire on ice, "You know what? Never mind. Let's just get this over with so we can get the hell away from each other."

Well, he doesn't intend to argue with that. His silence tenders assent, though it takes the woman longer than it should to realize as much. When she finally catches on, she runs a hand back through her hair in exasperation, chokes back whatever Nasty Sentiment she so obviously wants to share, and waves her hand vaguely toward the ship's central pillar. "This," she raps a knuckle lightly against the column as she reaches it, "is the gravity well. At the moment, it's only calibrated to reach 50x Earth's normal force, but I can dial it up whenever; just need a few hours to do it. If you can manage not to piss me off for a day or two, I might even consider doing it sooner rather than never." He ignores her peevish threat, and she surges forward, transitioning smoothly into Lecture Mode after a terse interdiction against touching anything until she's had a chance to explain everything she means to, lest he accidentally flatten her into a blue-hued pile of flesh-and-gore all over the craft's freshly-polished floor.

He isn't surprised when he only manages to make it through the initial 'this-button-does-that' portion of the tutorial before he's unthinkingly reaching out to fire up the machine, but Bulma's hand shooting out to intercept him does bring him brief pause.

Gloveless, he experiences again the problematic sensation of her touch, cool fingers settling at his wrist; after a beat, he shakes her off and stays the course. She wastes no time inserting herself bodily between himself and the panel, arms flung wide.

His focused goal to keep from touching her is the only thing stopping him from reaching _through_ her.

"What are you, slow? Wait 'til I've finished and gone, will you? What part of my mushy-scientist-puddle lecture didn't you understand? My body can't take the stresses of too many more G's, dammit. I will _die_." And here again she candidly volunteers more of her species' vulnerabilities; there's simply no saving these fools from themselves.

"All the more incentive." He nudges her aside (just _barely_ –she's every bit as fragile as she's indicated) with two fingers at her hip, grinning as she determinedly attempts to ground herself and finds herself utterly unable to resist him; she stumbles, stubs her toe against the core's casing, swears creatively about his lineage –and throws herself frantically back into his path.

There's no reason she should've been to accomplish such a feat; he's capable of moving several thousand times faster than she, after all. In no time, he could've had the machine humming to life. Which would have put an end, once and for all, to this obstinate female and her incessant screeching. Why then, the hesitation?

"I suggest you run along, woman. I have no further need of you." Sparking with indignation, she swats at his hand as he forgoes shoving her aside a second time and instead moves to reach around her.

"Listen here, Oh-Mighty-Lord of Ungrateful Freeloaders: I know you're probably used to everyone accommodating your bitter-psychotic-bastard quirkiness, but while you're living _here_ –where, I'll remind you, you've been charitably put up free-of-charge—you _will stop_ dismissing me and threatening me all the live-long-day, and you _will_ learn some basic freaking manners, and treat me with the respect I deserve for being your gracious, gorgeous host." Her eyes are blue fire, seared through with rebuke.

Fearless.

Feeling every bit the predator he is, he blurs into existence a hair's breadth from her face, sending her stumbling over herself in the suddenly confining ambit of his arms, which hem her in on either side, palms flat and fingers still on the cool metal paneling of the gravity well.

If he cannot have her fear freely, so be it.

He will simply have to earn it.

"Woman," he breathes, gaze catching on the startled pout of her lips, "it is time you learned your place." She swallows whatever trepidation holds her so stiffly in place and glowers right back, eyes dark and skin flush.

Quaint, he muses absently, that a sidling step forward would align his body with hers –and peculiar also, that this detail should avail itself to him at all.

Then: with a sharp, biting shock, he discovers himself casually weighing the merits of the action.

The revelation is something quite the opposite of pleasant, and the impulse to end her follows swiftly on its heels with new, dynamic urgency.

"Stuff it, Vegeta. This is _my_ spaceship, _my_ house, and my _planet_; you don't get to order me around here." It's all the challenge he needs to move closer, to set his mouth at her ear; she emits a startled, 'hey!' with a warm displacement of air at his cheek, braces a single, finely quivering hand at his sternum –to bridge their meager distance or hold him at bay, he has no idea.

"Oh?" He considers wrapping his hand around her throat again, to feel the trip-rhythm of her pulse, to puzzle over such cretinous incongruences as the water-smooth texture of her skin against his own battle-hewn fingers. Instead, he fastens his grip at her forearms where fabric conveniently spares him the distraction, "I disagree."

Eyes wide as she immediately reads his intent,

"You can't throw me out of my own ship, dammit! It's _mine_!" But it's already too late, he's already materializing over the lawn, smirking as the woman slowly processes that she's no longer on solid ground. Still looking more stunned than outraged (though he doesn't doubt that will come, and soon), he drops her, and delights in the show of her crumpling helplessly at his feet. He doesn't wait for her to gain her own feet, instead zipping back for the ship the instant he deduces she's sustained no serious or lasting injury (other than, perhaps, to her pride), smirking as he hits the correct sequence of buttons to close the hatch and hears her howling obscenities at him over the noise of the mechanism.

The last thing he sees before the threshold seals over is the flash of her eyes, glimmering with lethal intent.

* * *

"My scouts tell me you went all to pieces over some callow simian, little brother." Freeza's tail twitches sharply, and the screech of metal hinging against metal sings sinister in the shadow-darkened infirmary.

Caustic, "I don't imagine this will be nearly as funny when I tear out your throat." Cooler doesn't flinch.

"I jest, Freeza. Calm yourself. I'm sure you hurry even now to rectify this frightful transgression against your dignity; you'll be seeking retribution, I expect, as well as to restore our Clan's reputation where injuries have been incurred. It is no lasting disgrace." Always, the supercilious cut of his elder's words, designed to disparage and crafted to penetrate. "By the boundless stars, Child," Cooler pretends to study him, the mischief in his appraisal warning enough of the slight to come, "that Saiyan really did a number on you, didn't he? You are but _half_ the Emperor you were." The Ruler Supreme of the Eastern Galactic Empire meditates on the merits of fratricide, balling his fists at his side and feeling three-hundred turns younger, an effect uniquely evoked by Cooler, whose countenance now reports derision and tragic disappointment.

"Cooler." A deeper, distinctive voice hails from the gloom at his back, near the bay's sole entrance. "A little civility?" His father steps into what sparse light the room has to offer, all but filling the space with the immensity of his being. Freeza espies half-hearted chagrin on his sire's face, leveled forward at the monitor, through which Cooler can be seen standing at sudden, subtle attention, long tail carefully stilling at his heels. But his brother coolly smiles his way through the perfunctory reproach, even as he inclines his head in deference.

"I would hardly dare otherwise, Father. Freeza knows it for sport, that I'm being facetious. Don't you, hatchling?" Freeza knows better than to dignify this baiting with any reaction whatsoever. He contents himself with dreaming up the best, most perfect way of eviscerating one's obnoxious sibling. "I called only to offer commiserations, and to volunteer my services, should you have need of me. The report I received lauded your monkey upstart as a warrior of uncommon caliber, and I felt obliged to extend a helping hand –or, in your stead, to redress this villainy myself, should you decide you aren't up to the task." Freeza prepares to snap out a scathing reply, but his father calmly heads him off.

"Stop goading your brother, Cooler; we are all _family_ here, aren't we?" The word is intentionally ironic in delivery; blood has cultivated no fondness between _these_ brothers. When neither of his offspring appear inclined to respond, Kind Cold sighs, weary. "At any rate, if what we are in fact dealing with is a 'Super Saiyan,' as Freeza seems well beyond convinced we are, then it's no matter left to chance, and warrants the express, immediate attention of someone equipped to handle the over-powerful little monkey. And who knows? Perhaps I'll see some worthwhile action before the Universe is wiped free of the Saiyan menace once and for all."

His brother's eyes reflect flickering surprise, stark bemusement.

"You're…going personally?" Cooler echoes back, clearly still digesting this newest nugget of information. In spite of himself, Freeza smirks, malicious. It'd been a hundred turns at least –maybe longer—since Cold had deigned to intercede on behalf of either of his progeny, though only half that since one of them –Cooler—had been in dire need of it. Freeza experiences a rapturous moment of savage pleasure, recalling his older brother's thinly-veiled desperation against the threat of an intergalactic alliance twelve planets and several billion sentient soldiers strong –and their father's baffling, frigid indifference to his plight, leaving Cooler to the mercy of the myriad ferocious, vengeance-minded legions out specifically for his blood.

Unfortunately, Cooler had lived through the ordeal, albeit barely, and the incident had instilled in both of Cold's sons the notion that, under exigent circumstances, they were to be left to whatever fate befell them; they would find no quarter with their father.

The king's interest in _his_ well-being in the aftermath of his defeat by that monkey bastard defies this conventional wisdom, however, quite clearly to Cooler's bitter unhappiness. And Freeza's sadistic delight.

"Well that is, that's…" Cooler begins, lapsing into brief, furious incoherence. At his side, their father's gaze is level, disaffected; if he notices Cooler's discomfiture, he offers no indication of it. Recovering himself at length, "That's splendid, father. Overkill, perhaps, but I wish you both swift expedition all the same; hope your massacre goes swimmingly, and so forth."

"Make no mistake, the monkey _will pay_." Freeza finally puts in, the force of his wrath undoubtedly contorting his features most distastefully.

"I have the utmost faith." Cooler returns, curt, his earlier humor entirely evaporated. "Brother, father." He nods at each in turn, and the transmission unceremoniously cuts out.

"Tch. Too long on the fringes, that one; lost all sense of manners." Absent remark dispensed, King Cold pivots coolly and strides out of the infirmary without further comment. Freeza, newly optimistic, is very nearly giddy, and puts in a call to the gallery for victory spirits.

It'll be several months yet before he's anywhere near back to top form. But he can feel it already, the raw tingle of new, artificially-enhanced power, and he feels certain once his convalescence is complete, Son Goku will be made **acutely** aware of his humiliation.

* * *

next chapter: zarbon takes a crash course in saiyan diplomacy, bulma breaks the camel's back and receives a similar education, kami pulls a Xellos Metallium, and princey-poo unwittingly saves a man's life (and Learns Nothing from the experience).

[WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THIS WAS ALWAYS THE NEXT CHAPTER PREVIEW YOU'RE LYING I DIDN'T EAGLE IN AND CHANGE IT WHILE YOU WEREN'T LOOKING.


	5. enriching political experience

this chapter ran in from the street and slugged me in the gottdamn face; understandably, at first I wanted nothing to do with it, but when we got talking i discovered we had enough things in common that i could overlook the violent introduction and invite it in for drinks.

'course, after it was in i couldn't get it to LEAVE, and was instead forced to watch helplessly as it evolved into Something Horrifying.

that being said: this's only the first part of chapter five; chances are good that when i get the second half something-like-finished, i'll just attach it to the nether-end of *this* chapter...but i haven't decided for certain just yet. it may turn out this was a good place to sunder it after all.

in any case, i wanted to post *something* before everyone gives this fic-thing up for dead.

so.

[let your disclaimer be as though a monkey on a treadmill: confused, and tripping around. -pewtf]

* * *

**chapter five**

* * *

**Age 738**

_Zarbon tears violently out of his artificially-induced sleep with a single, burning thought: those cheeky, flea-ridden monkeys had gone and **gassed** him! _

_He checks his temper and sets his fingers flying over the nav-con*, and in no time he's punching through atmo, rocketing across a taupe-white sky, and crash-landing into the glutinous, pod-catching cushion of an Alliance-grade space port. Once settled, he forgoes the convention of waiting for the hatch to open itself in favor of snapping the door clean off its jointed hinge, which is a more efficient (and damn gratifying) method of exiting one's pod, anyway. _

_The carnage hits him all at once, the great sulfur stink of singed hair and broiled viscera the putrid-sweet complement to a likewise gruesome visual: all that's left of the Kare-jin** greeting party is a grisly scorch mark colonnade, garlanded with sundered body parts and garish splashes of olive-yellow ichor, stippled every which way with freshly-charred chunks of flesh and metal and fabric. And beside him on the landing pad, three pods, tugged into a neat little triangle, pointedly open and just as pointedly empty._

_He feels the first, tentative stabbings of one seriously vicious headache coming on and begins gently massaging his temple with one hand as he reaches up to tap his scouter on with the other, instantly apprehending the situation when his eyepiece beeps its frantic tattoo against his eardrum, indicating someone of Nappa's strength is almost certainly having his ass handed to him by someone else registering a power level roughly three times the Commander's battle maximum…somewhere within the port-adjacent palace._

_Zarbon sighs, clicking over to the only other noteworthy signatures in the area: Vegeta and Radditz, stationary for the moment, but definitely in Nappa's immediate vicinity, likely watching the fight._

_"So much for trying to talk things out." He murmurs sullenly to no one._

_As Lord Freeza had been mulling over the possibility of inviting the Kare-jin into the Alliance as an Associate World anyway (in pursuit of securing lasting access to what his Master had deemed 'visionary' ki technology), it'd seemed as good a time as any to deliver on his promise to the Prince's father, who'd agreed to send the boy to foster with his competition on the chief condition that his heir be instructed in the administration of rule as well as the much-loved labor of 'imperial expansion.' The younger Vegeta stands to inherit one of the most extensive and powerful Sister Realms in the Planet Trade Alliance***, after all (even if he presently amounts to little more than a valuable bargaining token), and must be taught that Empires cannot stand on strength alone. _

_Hence, the dictum to seriously attempt reaching diplomatic agreement, and to use force only as a final resort._

_Somehow, Zarbon doesn't think he's quite up to the task of trying to sell his Lord and Master on the fiction that the wholesale annihilation of the Kare-jin welcoming committee within ten clicks of arrival had been the desperate consequence of a 'final resort' –**particularly **as he's in no mood to be granting favors after the scheming urchins sabotaged his pod! Stalled his arrival! **Gassed** him!_

_As Zarbon sets off for the royal keep, no longer in any real hurry, he resigns himself to the hopelessness of salvaging this mission, politically-speaking, and also bleakly to the inevitability of Freeza's displeasure._

_At least, he resolves cynically, at least he's going to treat himself to the show of Nappa's thrashing before his Liege treats him to a first-hand demonstration of insides becoming outsides._

_/-/_

_"I suppose negotiations broke down unavoidably, through no fault of your own." Zarbon's tone is dry as he touches down in time to see silver, splinter-flicking energy shear Nappa's thigh through to the bone –and then through the bone, too, the jagged wound gaping open like a mouth, huge and luridly red, a clotted mesh of tendons all that spare him immediate dismemberment._

_The Commander roars, agony inscribed into every taut line of his body, and an unmistakably exuberant smile stretching wide across his lips._

_Standing just ahead of him, Radditz's face also threatens to burst open with giddy gladness, because of course he's elated that he, too, might have the happy opportunity of being carved into so many thick, furry steaks by this drastically more powerful fighter._

_Cracked, Zarbon concludes, every last one of them. The 'different strokes' bit only holds up in so many situations, and he's pretty sure the Saiyans' species-wide death wish doesn't qualify as one of them. _

_"Clearly, you've done everything in your power to establish our interest in settling things amicably." He sighs long-sufferingly (as long suffering he has indeed endured in the months since he'd been appointed the post of Royal Nanny and entrusted the –endlessly disagreeable—task of priming Vejiitasei's Crown Prince for the throne he'll one day publicly assassinate his father to assume), "I especially applaud the decision to send Commander Social Graces in to broker the deal; he's just the silver-tongued devil we needed to smooth over that whole 'welcome party massacre' fiasco." The Prince, at his side, says nothing, though he smirks rather loudly. Exasperatedly, "Vegeta, this was meant to be a **diplomatic **mission."_

_The boy sweeps his hand dramatically across the horizon, where the warring pair are currently locked in close-quarter combat. _

_"Behold, Saiyan diplomacy." Vegeta's Smug hits critical mass, and Zarbon watches with detachment as Nappa's opponent –whom he recognizes from the mission profile as the Kare-jin Queen—blows a sloppy, fist-sized hole clear through him, meat and muscle and pureed vital organ slicking across the throne room floor in steaming, viscous gobs._

_Sarcastically, "Well, **I'm** certainly impressed." And actually, Zarbon acknowledges as an aside, he **is** impressed, that Nappa's still somehow not only conscious but also continuing to make the effort to fight._

_…not **much** of an effort, obviously; the brute's losing blood by the bucket (primarily in the region of his stomach, where his new viewing port's just been installed), but even as his movements begin to slog and he undertakes a second battle with himself to remain conscious, the Commander maintains –at the least—an unabatedly furious verbal onslaught, code-switching deliriously back-and-forth from Standard to the coarse, dissonant language of his people._

_"Still, I'd wager this isn't quite the 'enriching political experience' Lord Freeza meant you to have. Or the King, for that matter." He catches the movement of ten tiny fingers curling into two tiny, powerful fists at even the sideline mention of the man. _

_The lordling's father is ever the sorest of subjects: small wonder, when the price the King had (all-too-willingly) paid to secure a probationary moratorium of hostilities between the Saiyans and the Cold Empire had been his only son and heir. Or, more accurately, his heir's fealty and freedom, to ensure all future generations in the House of Vegeta continue in the tradition of their forebears: as vassals in service to Freeza._

_Zarbon likes to pick at the boy's paternal scab for this very reason –the better to keep the wound tender and the pain fresh. Vegeta's far too easily agitated about it for starters, and obstinately refuses to deal with it for another; as such, he sees little recourse other than to deliberately provoke the child into confronting his demons. They will otherwise come to rule him, and given time, what currently exists only as superficial injury will fester into every bit as dangerous a liability as his fatally sensitive tail (the latter of which was only recently revealed to him, after he'd tweaked the thing out of curiosity and found himself faced with the obsessively proud royalty dropping to the floor in keening, fetal agony, completely at his mercy)._

_Unfortunately, purging Vegeta of his weaknesses continues to be an uphill battle; his narrow-minded pupil has yet to accept –or fully understand, or really buy into—the concept of 'centering oneself,' and without proper appreciation for the vital necessity of a warrior to work from a place of psycho-spiritual equilibrium, the stubborn monkey will likely never willingly endeavor to resolve his Daddy Issues…and it'll be his own potential suffering for it._

_As for his tail trouble…there're no records to testify one way or another on the triumph or folly of attempting to desensitize the area (since, according to Radditz, 'Saiyans don't believe in **recording** histories, only in creating them –or, preferably, in destroying them'), so Zarbon's been playing things by ear, hoping until one of them comes up with a better idea that rigorous overexposure to (painful) stimuli might eventually do the trick -which in less elegant terms means he plans on squeezing the bejeezus out of the __pesky-be-damned_ thing until the Prince stops squealing. 

_His pensive bubble bursts when the Commander of the Saiyan Armed Forces punches through the ground some twenty paces away, out-of-sight and immediately out-of-mind with the very final-sounding impact of face meeting solid stone at 200 kilometers an hour._

_From her airborne vantage, the claret-hued Queen roars something unintelligible in a heavy brogue, which his scouter interprets for him as: 'Who among you villains shall next receive my judgment?'_

_He supposes the theatrical challenge fits the character profile of someone who –according to reconnaissance reports—enjoys global worship as some manner of major divinity, both for having lived nearly a thousand turns on a planet where the expectancy isn't half that, and for possessing the only fighting-level ki anywhere in her world –and a formidable ki, at that._

_For all this, she appears woefully unaware that both he and the young Prince outmatch her. Himself drastically, and Vegeta only just so, though from what (admittedly little) he's seen of her in action, the boy's far and away her better in form._

_She's no intuitive sense for combat whatsoever, no concept of movement economy, and quite clearly very little in the way of training to properly harness her ki (for what incentive does one have to learn the art of fighting from a master when the crudity of strength is all that's ever been needed?); her quantitatively superior strength and speed were enough to overcome Nappa, but it's going to take a great deal more than that to best the Saiyan no Ouji._

_"Imagine, Zarbon," Vegeta begins, "how amenable these wretches will be to an open discussion of terms after I've murdered their Immortal Sovereign." The adolescent Saiyan at his back has his arms folded over his chest and arrogance splashed bold across his face as he stares up at Nappa's executioner (he prefers to believe the Commander's dead until proven otherwise), and Zarbon realizes belatedly that the Princeling's knowledge of the Queen's social standing means he'd either been listening at the briefing or he'd taken the time to run through the mission profile independently, which is progress however you slice it; as recently as a month ago, Vegeta was still insisting that operational details meant nothing to a warrior of 'his caliber.'_

_He supposes he should be glad the pig-headed mammal had any thought for politics whatsoever; yet, in spite of this (mediocre) progress, the fact remains: the Prince's plan is dubious at best, and one hell of a risky gamble besides, rife with the potential to end Very Badly. If it happens that the God-Queen's disciples are fanatical, for example, willing to die to the man rather than kneel before the destroyer of their faith, this could get very messy indeed. And if, for this same very messy reason, they fail to obtain an open door exchange of technology; if later, after the Saiyans' counter-productive 'negotiation,' Freeza's scientists are unable to reproduce the technology and there's no one left alive to walk them through the process, then his Lord's reproof will be a fearsome sight to behold._

_But…then again, the Kare-jin may fall immediately into line and offer an unconditional surrender, as Vegeta's so audaciously predicted. Only the outcome of this battle will tell._

_/-/_

_In truth, the 'battle' can scarcely be called as much; the work of a moment is all the Prince requires to methodically disassemble the lissome 'immortal,' who remains remarkably composed for someone whose life is drawing so violently to a close._

_At least until, in her final moment, she begs in raw timbre for mercy—_

_"Please, **don't**—"_

_-but of course he does, whipping his arm across a chasm of inches to remove her trachea, easy as he might pluck a leaf from a tree._

_The following instant finds Vegeta irritatedly flicking the Queen's bright life's blood from the fingertips of his gloves and spinning in mid-air to address the court even as her body impacts the pearl-lustrous staircase abutting her dais with a great, wet crunch; every squat, sorrel-skinned member can be seen cowering in various shades of Pure Terror behind massive slate pillars at the far end of the throne room, unable to flee through or over the smoking pile of rubble that had once served as the chamber's only entry and escape._

_Smirking, Vegeta demands categorical compliance with the Alliance's terms, promising mercy while their Queen drowns noisily in her own fluids below him._

_At the end of the day, they have a dead god, a contractually binding exchange of technology agreement, tentative assent to enter into the Alliance under Associate title, and a regrettably –if miraculously—mending Commander Nappa._

_Meaning they all probably live to see another day._

_But also almost certainly meaning it'll be **impossible **now to convince the Saiyan Prince that any tactic other than Example by Gruesome Murder might be worthwhile when undertaking 'diplomacy._'

* * *

The situation with the woman had had to reach a head eventually. They've been racing for this pass full-tilt for nearly four months now.

Within seventy-two hours of dumping President Briefs on the lawn, Vegeta hits the ceiling of his potential under 50Gs, and sets out at once to retrieve the woman's father and have him 'dial up' the gravity well to maximum capacity…only to be waylaid outside the old man's principal workshop by a twitching canine scientist who promptly informs him that Dr. Briefs had, with the President and his wife in tow, vacated the property the previous afternoon.

When he demands to know where in hell they'd gone and for precisely how long, the fidgety beast adjusts the thick glasses at the base of its snout and alleges it's got no idea, that they'd gone 'to see friends' and that that's all the information anyone in the Company'd been given.

Grumbling, he dismisses the useless mongrel and casts out his senses, meaning to fish out the underhanded little female (whose departure had been timed entirely too conveniently to be misunderstood) and finally dispose of her…except that, after a disorienting moment of failure, he realizes further attempts to locate her psychically will prove a fool's errand, that she's obviously moved herself beyond the limits of his awareness.

There's no way of knowing why he catches himself keeping company with the bizarre assumption that he'd be able to intercept her nothing-signature no matter where or how far she might flee; however distinctive her _ki_ may be _here_, where the stamp of her presence is impressed into the very air he breathes, she's still every bit as shockingly weak as most of the billion or so others inhabiting this puny world, and just as easily lost among them. How he could ever have conceived a thought otherwise is a mystery.

With scarcely a week left before Kakarrot's revived, Vegeta makes the flip judgment that Bulma isn't worth the time he'd waste searching for her; he needs to train, to stay focused on his ambition, to put that unstable, unyielding _shrew_ as far out of mind as possible. She'll have to return eventually as it is, and likely sooner rather than later, as both her life and her livelihood are tied intimately to this place. Meanwhile, he's gained time to cultivate his vengeance, to refine his enmity for her to its final, lethal purpose.

With this comforting thought in mind, he cuts right back toward the ship to pick up where he left off, fully intending to wait the woman out, to reserve The Reckoning for her homecoming.

(Until.)

He finds her note taped to the refrigerator door late the following afternoon, printed on bright, colorful paper and positioned thoughtfully next to the handle so as not to be missed.

_Vegeta—_

_Food's in the fridge if you're looking for a snack; dom-bots are programmed to prepare breakfast n' dinner at 12hr intervals. _

_Took mom&dad to Chi Chi's, will be back...eventually. _

_Train hard, but pace yourself, since there'll be __no one around to recalibrate the GR for you._

_-B_

It's a tacit acknowledgment of her _explicit_ intention to stonewall his progress by leaving when she had.

It's a challenge and a malicious rebellion; an insult.

It's the end of his patience.

* * *

Bulma wakes with an ominous feeling nestled snugly into her gut, a painful, restless weight with _claws_; she can feel the sharp knead of them against her belly, and her body reacts instinctively, tensing, locking tight.

She stares up at the ceiling in the semi-dark of dawn, waiting for the terror-without-origin to pass; when it does, some three hundred ticks of the clock later, she rolls herself off the sofa in her usual limp noodle fashion and unthinkingly stumbles left for the bathroom –before she remembers this isn't her house, and the bathroom isn't _on_ the left. The bathroom is _outdoors_, actually, because of course it is –this's Son-kun's place and it's in the godforsaken middle of nowhere and obviously the universe _hates_ her this morning. Aggravated and still weary but too awake now for that to matter, she grumblingly winds her way down the hall and into the kitchen.

Chi Chi's there, in the midst of laying out the ingredients for breakfast. Bulma opens her mouth to greet her unsmiling host, and instead has the breath stolen from her by a monstrous yawn. Blinking sleepy tears from her eyes,

"Oi; sorry, Chi Chi. Still kinda fuzzy." Goku's wife nods stiffly, mouth creased into a stern, solid line…which Bulma takes to mean she's still angry about last night.

They'd gotten into it after Chi Chi'd blindsided her with accusations of being irresponsible, for not enforcing Gohan's rigorous homework schedule over their two month trip to Namek, for 'letting' him go into battle against 'that crazy alien lizard,' and for the repeated infraction of Not Calling to tattle on her son the past dozen or so times he's skipped out on his studies and shown up at Capsule Corp to go running off with Piccolo to engage in 'who-knows-what delinquent-type activities.'

Bulma, never one to take abuse lying down (deserved or not), had come back with her own scathing indictments, against Chi Chi's obsessive over-protectiveness, her mulish, psychotic disregard of the Bigger Picture, and her 'freaky-creepy' preoccupation with systematically sucking all the fun out of her son's life by way of 'fascist study regimens.'

The inevitable skirmish followed.

It hadn't been pretty.

"My pa and Gohan're already up and gettin' ready;" Chi Chi tells her coolly, "I'll throw together some breakfast n' wake your folks, an' we can be headin' out inside an hour." Then, Gohan's darling-benevolent angel of a mother holds out a steaming, heavenly-smelling cup of sweet, sweet coffee…which Bulma takes to mean Chi Chi's not _so_ mad, after all. She accepts the peace offering with a sleepy smile, sips at it gratefully.

"Thanks, this really hits the spot." After another small gulp, "I was gonna head out to the plane and run through a quick pre-flight check; I'll leave the loading doors open for whenever the boys're ready to start packing up." Lifting her mug in a gesture of reiterated gratitude, she breaks for the outside world, newly optimistic for as long as it takes to reach and open the front door, when the frigid morning chill wraps itself like an icy shawl at her shoulders, bare but for the thin straps of her tank top.

Her sunny disposition promptly ices over.

Muttering a curse as her flesh breaks out in goose-pimples, she sprint-walks for what she gauges is the half-way point between the main household and the modest dwelling Goku's grandpa had once called home (mindful of sloshing her Divine Beverage as little as possible), and hurriedly chucks the capsule containing her favorite compact passenger plane onto the lawn, racing for the interior almost before the smoke clears to fire up the engines and pump some much-needed heat into the cabin. By the time she manages to dig her spare jacket out of the supply closet, she decides it's too damn cold outside to follow through on her casually tendered promise to leave the back hatch open for Gohan and Ox; instead, in the interest of Not Freezing to Death, she resolves to leave it closed 'til they actually need it otherwise.

Really, it's not that big a deal –the press of a button and the space of four or five seconds and voila! Doors open, problem solved. And in the meantime, she'll have gotten the plane nice and toasty for all her passengers. No need for anyone to get worked up and raise hell over a silly-trivial little thing like an (ostensible!) failure to honor her word when there're extenuating circumstances to take into account. No need to _totally overreact _or demonstrate one's _full-blown lack of impulse control _by RIPPING EXPENSIVE DOORS OUT OF_ EQUALLY EXPENSIVE WALLS_!

…in retrospect, there's a chance she might still be nursing a grudge against Vegeta over his whole 'barbarian thug' shtick.

_Ugggh, Vegeta_, she recalls, biting back the rancor he inspires in her even from afar, and trying her very-very hardest to shift back into her diligent Not-Thinking-About-Prince-Bastard Mode…which unsurprisingly accomplishes the opposite effect, and leaves her unable to think of anything else. Gritting her teeth in irritation, she flips on the master switch with more force than strictly necessary, and checks the fuel level through a fine, red haze.

She'd been doing so _well_ distancing herself (mentally _and_ physically) from her amoral houseguest; hell, want of reprieve from his bitter-bastardy comprises at least half the reason she'd flown the coop!

…or anyway, he's the reason she'd flown the coop prematurely; even had His Haughtiness _not_ seen fit to liberate her lab door or toss her on her ass on the lawn, Chi Chi'd made plans with her months ago to spend the week before The Summoning at Capsule Corp, and Bulma'd promised then to make the trip personally to retrieve everyone, and possibly to spend a couple days visiting, too. She'd never been to Goku's cozy house in the woods, or borne witness first-hand to the life he'd made for himself out here with his wife and son (and occasionally his father-in-law, as well), and though there's a heartsick part of her that wishes she hadn't had to come without Son-kun himself present, she knows all the same she wouldn't have missed this opportunity for the world –and _definitely_ not for some heinous extraterrestrial _prick_ with the personality of a shark tank and the social graces of…well, a _monkey_.

It'd just been a happy coincidence that her decision to head for the Sons' a couple days ahead of schedule also meant inconveniencing Vegeta –although, admittedly, she hadn't needed (or, before he threw her out of her ship, _intended_) to cajole her parents into coming along for the trip; that particular move was meant as a preventative measure to ensure her dad couldn't be wrangled into GR duty in her absence, and had purely spiteful motivations.

The petty, needling note she'd tacked to the fridge after she secured her parents' assent had been left in the self-same maliciously defiant spirit; entitled royalty and depraved by nature he may be, but Bulma Briefs has never been any good at taking anyone's shit, even if that 'anyone' happens to be a supernaturally strong interstellar assassin, and it's a point she means to drive into the Prince's over-thick skull if it kills her.

...at the rate she's going now, it may well do just that.

Bulma realizes her behavior's completely irrational. Vegeta's entire life has been one giant blood orgy after another; intellectually, she's aware she should _not_ be testing him. But she can't seem to help herself; he just…he sets her off, with his pointless, unrepentant cruelty, and in the heat of her agitation, she keeps forgetting to be afraid. (It doesn't help matters that her flight instincts are so severely underdeveloped, but when virtually all of one's closest friends are literally and by far the strongest people on the planet, it's difficult to muster a suitable appreciation for one's own relative helplessness.)

Still, facts being what they are (Vegeta: a rage-a-holic and serial killer by trade, and Earth: teeming with ever-so-murderable life and hopelessly vulnerable without Goku), she fully intends to see to his gravity needs when she gets back. Kami knows he'll never rest until _someone_ does, and while she's not above indulging in a little harmless schadenfreude and letting him stew for a bit, she doesn't want him to flip his shit and start wasting people, either. Especially not people for whom she's directly responsible, like her employees, or all those poor, sweet Namekians.

For the time being, at least, she figures they're all (more or less) safe from his wrath; whatever twisted standard of honor Vegeta holds himself to has kept him from snapping anyone's neck so far (though he's certainly keen on threatening to), so she's gotten comfortable with the assumption that she can trust him not to start offing anybody 'til after he's beaten Goku (although obviously _that_'ll never happen) and 'earned the right' to have another go at planet-wide genocide.

It's at this point the vid-phone just above the dash comes screaming to life, the urgent signal indicating her emergency line activated. A startled glance at the monitor reveals that the call's coming from Capsule Corp –the robotics division. The tummy-twisting presentiment that'd shaken her from sleep only twenty minutes past returns with sick vengeance. Willfully choking back the worst of it, she offers a small prayer to Whoever's Listening that something's only gone wrong with the newest generation of submersible suit, or maybe with the service bot upgrades, and that her selfish decision to leave a crazy homicidal alien alone with her employees isn't about to get them all killed.

Nervously, she takes a deep breath and reaches up with shaking fingers to patch the call through.

And there's Vegeta at the screen's margin, aura flaring, snapping at someone to his right.

_Oh, Kami no_.

* * *

*nav-con: navigation console; just thought 'nav-con' sounded more colloquial

**_kare_: a more or less phonetic rendering of the japanese pronunciation of 'curry'

***in the manga/anime, i believe the official moniker for the Colds' planet-bartering emporium was the 'World Trade Organization,' but i've gone with 'Planet Trade Alliance' because it abbreviates to PTA, which seemed appropriate since the Parent-Teacher Association is *also* an evil-powerful syndicate, whose ranks are swollen with villainous personages and whose name strikes dread-terror into the hearts of All.

/-/

a few notes:

first, i realize that, from a narrative perspective, it doesn't make a whole lotta sense for vegeta's flashbacks/reminisces to happen via zarbon POV. but what with zarbon being somewhat less-than-alive, it's the only way i could think to give the lovely green-ish fellow a voice in the fic.

AND.

i know we're all here for the v/b (i certainly am), but as much as i love the pairing, i also lovelovelove veggie-kins, whose past is too damn tempting not to fondle inappropriately every opportunity i get, as he's a character with plenty of _history_, but not so much in the way of personal backstory. which i think we can all agree is a TRAVESTY. so expect to see more of zarbon n' radditz n' nappa as we go along, and bear with me, darlings. we'll get to the steamy sexytimes in due course, and the wait'll make it all the more scrum-diddly-umptious.

and anyway, what's juicy-bleeding meat without fluffy-buttered potatoes? YOU CAN'T HAVE MEAT WITHOUT POTATOES.

...i may have lost the point.

finally!

to **wallflower-chan**: RIGHT ISN'T VA AMAZING? blows my mind every time i re-read it. (also, thankyousomuch for reviewing, you gorgeous-glorious person, you. i know my writing's tedious to comb through, but thanks for stickin' with it!)

next chapter: SEE ch. 4 preview; still applies.


	6. rules of engagement

dear reviewers: i love you.

more earnestly and creepily than you will ever know.

haaaaaarts to every swell-special one o' ye'.

[YOUR DISCLAIMER IS A CAVERN OF LIES!]

* * *

**chapter six**

A couple months ago, he probably wouldn't've picked it up.

'Course, a couple months ago was before he'd been confined in a spaceship for weeks with Miss Bulma's aura the only one other than Krillin's to feel. And even if he _hadn't_ been using the opportunity to practice reading auras like Dad'd encouraged him to before he left for Namek, the lively-swiveling kaleidoscope of Miss Bulma's spiritual temper would've been pretty hard to ignore in such close quarters. In fact, he'd gotten so used to the bright glow of her energy, flicking like a candle at a mental periphery, that he occasionally still imagines he feels her.

But she's no phantom presence today. She's _here_, just outside, and she's upset, and –if he's sensing things right, maybe a little scared, too.

Gohan stills, waiting for a second, taut pull of distress, for the mental cue that'll tell him whether or not he's needed. He doesn't have to wait long; the steady pulse of her anxiety spikes to panic almost at once. Hurriedly, he tugs himself out of the clothes Mom'd set aside for the trip to Capsule Corp and digs out his purple gi_._

_Mom's gonna be so mad when she finds out…_

Resigning himself to his inevitable punishment with a soft sigh, he toes into his shoes and forgoes zipping through the house at light-speed in favor of jumping out the window. Six years' worth of experience with his mom's razor sharp intuition warns him away from trying to escape through the front door; even moving at speeds exceeding her ability to detect physically, it seems unwise to test her Mom Radar now, when his friend might be in big trouble.

When he reaches Miss Bulma's plane, he feels it again –that second-hand, sick-wrenching tug at his gut, and accidentally presses down too hard on the door panel as a result. The plating fractures under his thumb, and the wiring beneath sparks at him indignantly. Still, the door whirs open (even if it doesn't whir closed again afterward, like he expects it's supposed to), and he sets his embarrassment on the backburner as he slips inside, right in time to hear:

"My employees are not _shooting targets_, you pointy-headed bastard! Put that-that **thing** out RIGHT NOW!" Her voice is high and hysterical, but she's alone in the cockpit, that much he can tell for certain.

When he slides forward to position himself at the –wide open—cockpit door, the first thing he sees is Bulma, pointing and flailing at a videophone affixed to the dash. And there just beyond her, featured on the very same video monitor, is—

* * *

Vegeta breaks into the closest engineering building and sets about ordering people pell-mell to abandon their meaningless tasks and come tend his infinitely more pressing errand.

One brave fool steps forward with hands raised in a placating gesture: "We're, um, not s'pposed to touch the ship without—uhh, consent from the President or her, er, her father, sir."

Folding his arms, Vegeta lifts into the air and makes an appraising turn of the massive, circular facility, counting heads –roughly twenty-five or thirty immediately visible, another dozen or so more he can feel moving unseen about enormous, multi-stational assembly systems that pulse and wheeze and whine by turns. Then, with deadly poise, he seeks the gaze of the stammering male who has, perhaps unknowingly, nominated himself as liaison, which to Vegeta's mind is as good as volunteering to be the first put to slaughter.

Without breaking eye contact, he bellows an announcement to the room at large, notifying them of his intent to begin collecting their corpses, limb by bloody limb, until someone buckles and submits to his command. He advises them, too, against attempting to run, for that is the surest way of moving up the Murder Queue. Although, he adds with a wolfish grin, he doesn't want anyone thinking this means he'd _mind_ the inconvenience, or the collapsed skulls such an endeavor would occasion. The warning's more droll courtesy than proscriptive counsel anyway, since unless he gets what he's come for he means to butcher every last one of them, regardless of whether or not they choose to heed his ever-so-friendly advice.

"Now," he finishes, gathering solid-smooth energy into a neat, glowing sphere over the palm of his left hand, "let's begin."

Sordid anticipation dissolves through four dismal-dreary months' worth of restless frustration as though it'd never been; with an almost joyful air, he bids an enthusiastic farewell to his self-imposed, accommodating passivity, and raises his hand to liquefy the unfortunate male's face.

Inevitably, it would seem, his Professional Interruption turns up to ruin the moment; at precisely the happy instant 'negotiations' are getting interesting, the light changes, markedly. The staid, industrial tones of the entire workshop are filtered suddenly through a softer, _bluer_ palette, and he knows before he looks what it means –or rather, _who_ it means.

_Bulma_, he rumbles to himself, finding to his astonishment that he _can_ hate her more deeply still.

Performing a mid-air about-face confirms the matter: arched across the curving walls of the dome, a real-time feed flashes an immense projection of President Briefs, furious visage now enlarged several hundred times, vivid blue and pale cream filling his vision.

His aura flares white, and the rote perfection of the sphere in his hand ruptures, prickles across his skin with a spark-skidding crack. It's not painful in the least; in fact, he barely feels it at all. But that'd been –his control had **slipped**, for the first time since that…_unpleasantness_ with Zarbon on Okashi-sei (though to be fair, his slip on Okashi had cost him a great deal more than a second's discomfort). He blinks down at his arm, making the split-second decision to hold it solely accountable for this outrage.

For a full, appraising second, the woman looks torn between characteristic defiance and hesitance born of…worry, perhaps? Worry and dread, he hopes, because it will mean she's beginning now to understand precisely whom she's crossed. It will mean she's _learning_.

_About damn time_, he mutely grouses, preparing to gloat until she apparently decides in favor of insubordination and runs right over his premature Smug—

"_WHAT_ IS GOING ON!" She screeches, which when pumped through sound-amplifying audio equipment into a space designed to optimize acoustics threatens to rupture his eardrums. She follows up in the next breath, unsurprisingly affording him no opportunity to actually respond: "My employees are not _shooting targets_, you pointy-headed bastard! Put that-that **thing** out RIGHT NOW!" She gestures urgently toward the (now fully stable) _ki_ sphere, and he feels the growl rumble up his chest and into his throat at this woman's drastic presumption to _order him around_! (It doesn't occur to him that he inadvertently complies with her panicked instruction when both of his hands convulsively clench into tight, angry fists.)

The silent, unexpected arrival of a second, even less welcome nuisance disrupts the natural rhythm of Their Quarrel: just beyond the ridge of her shoulder, he detects movement and catches the profile of Kakarrot's son entering the frame, with the obvious purpose of wanting to be seen. He recovers the missed beat easily enough.

"Woman," he warns, glare narrowing meaningfully at the boy, "I will allow you to stand in the way of my ascension no longer." Bulma jabs an undaunted finger at him through the monitor, drawing his attention briefly away from the pointed temerity of the brat's face and posture. She doesn't seem to've registered the half-breed's presence.

"Wake up and smell your own over-bloated ego, mister; don't go around blaming me for what _you started_!" He opens his mouth to contradict this juvenile charge, and she brusquely interjects. "Actions have consequences, Vegeta, and I do seem to remember _warning_ you NOT to piss me off if you ever expected me to dial up the grav. I've told you, dammit, you DON'T get to maul my lab and screw with my head and toss me outta MY SPACESHIP and then demand favors!" He almost rolls his eyes in exasperation. _Is she __**still**__ on about all that? Can the fool-born creature truly let go of __**nothing**__?_

"Woman—" He bites, and she cuts across him.

_A_-_fucking_-_gain_.

"Don't you '_woman_' me, dammit." In his peripheral view, he catches the boy wincing at her reckless admonishment. "My expectations are _not_ unreasonable. All I've asked you to do is shut your damn trap if you haven't got anything Not-a-Death-Threat to say, and not to hurt anybody or blow anything up while you're here. No one's kicked up a fuss about whether or not you still dream your horrifying dreams about murdering everyone we know and love, and my family's actually been extremely generous with you considering all the murdering of our loved ones you've _already done_!" The finest tremor of untoward emotion leaks through her fury, and he notices inexplicably that the high color of her cheeks is more conspicuous than ever at this magnification. "A little cooperation, Vegeta. The teensiest little bit. That's all I need. But there's _gotta_ be some give-and-take for this relationship to work. At the moment, I'm all 'give,' and you're all 'shameless-greedy mooch.'"

Put out, "You appear to be laboring under the delusion that you're my equal, female, when nothing could be more ludicrously far from the truth."

"Classist pig." She snaps.

Dangerously, "I am not your warrior to command –I owe you no allegiance."

Ignoring his tone, "Who in hell asked for your 'allegiance?' What in Kami's name d'you imagine I could even _do_ with the allegiance of an uncooperative _psychopath_? I didn't ask you to prostrate yourself before me, for cryin' out loud; just for some damn civility!"

Attempting to communicate with this creature is proving almost more frustrating than attempting the same with Nappa. He tries again:

"I believe I've made clear I'm _not beholden_ to you or your asinine Earther sensibilities."

"And I believe _I've_ made clear that no one on this planet is your freaking slave! I've been 'clearly making' that point since you got here!"

"You pledged I would have unlimited use of the GR, woman." He redirects gruffly. She gives him a look meant to communicate a drastically low opinion of his intelligence.

"Don't you _have_ unlimited use of the GR?" She snaps back, this time intentionally missing the point. "Last I checked, no one's taken that privilege away from you." She seems more brazen still across the comparatively 'safe' distance of technology; whatever initial anxious reluctance she might've felt at the sight of him poised to strike out at one of her employees is long-since vanished.

'…_at the sight of him poised to strike out at one of her employees.' _

Well. Perhaps the situation calls for a little diplomacy after all.

"Do not be deliberately obtuse." He warns. "You will dispatch one of your subordinates to recalibrate that damnable machine," –here he pauses to slide his gaze significantly toward his designated 'liaison,' who is as he speaks unluckily crossing again into his line of sight—"or I will dispatch one for you."

"What's _that_ supposed to me—" Is all he deigns to hear before he breaks right.

* * *

Gohan's the first to realize what's happening because he's the only one who can _see_ Vegeta charging across the room at superhuman speed, snagging the closest scientist by the collar, and hauling Miss Bulma's as-yet unaware employee to the center of the floor, where both of them must've appeared to everyone else as though from thin air.

A split-second before the captive man screams, as the Saiyan Prince is lifting into the air and drifting lazily toward the ceiling, an unsettling grin scores across Vegeta's face, and the blood-tipped bent of it has him issuing an urgent mental distress call. His sensei responds without delay, assuring him he's 'on it.' But Mr. Piccolo's only barely closer to Capsule Corp than he is; from all the way out here, it'll take him several long minutes they don't have to get there…and by then, it might already be too late.

Casting a rueful glance through the cockpit window toward the house, Gohan alerts Piccolo that he's coming, too.

_I can help. _He promises, hoping to head off any objections –needlessly, as it turns out:

_That s'pposed to be __news?, _comes his mentor's amused reply.

* * *

He floats to a gentle stop just shy of the domed ceiling; a cursory glance and a quick calculation later, Vegeta decides the human _could_ survive the fall, but likely won't.

"Put. Him. Down." Bulma commands, clearly without thinking the directive over beforehand. His grin stretches with malevolent languor.

"Oh, gladly."

"NO!" She slams panicked hands against the dash –and accidentally upends a mug of what looks to be that vile 'coffee' drink onto her lap in the process. Incautiously flying to her feet to the shocked-indignant tune of 'sonuva_BITCH_!,' the clumsy fool proceeds to smash her head against some unidentifiable mechanical outcropping above her, which sends her hurtling right back into her seat with yet another crudely-flung obscenity. For the madness of an instant, he's so amused he almost laughs, until it dawns on him suddenly that something in the frame is missing: the hybrid.

The boy's gone.

_When in hell did he-? _A quick scan reveals two power levels speeding toward him from roughly the same direction –not just the brat, then. The Earth-Namekian's leading the vanguard. _Finally_, his anticipation swells anew, _a fight_.

"Dammit, Vegeta, if he dies, YOU die!" Bulma pulls him back into the building in time to watch her stand again, more cautiously this time. One hand is pressed against her scalp, her face a study in poorly-masked agony. He makes an idle, offhand assessment of the fingers tangled into her hair, discerns the lack of blood, and next considers the relative size of her pupils to ensure she hasn't given herself a concussion.

Distractedly, "Give the order to have the gravity recalibrated, and there's no need for anyone to die here." As an afterthought, "Today." She emits a frustrated cry, and he concludes that she'll live to bitch another day (assuming he doesn't hunt her down and kill her first, that is).

"There's no one there who's _qualified_, Vegeta!" An upswept brow is all he offers to voice his skepticism. "I…um, wasn't kidding about there not being anyone around to help you out. There's seriously no authorized personnel on the property."

Darkly, "I trust you're not going to attempt to pass this off as a coincidence."

Bulma shifts her gaze left and doesn't pan it back toward the monitor until after she says,

"We –that is, _I_…might, perhaps –_possibly_'_ve _sent a few of our top engineers off on hard-earned fabulous vacations to various exotic locations across the world. _Maybe_." He smirks vaguely in spite of himself; Bulma's efforts to hinder his progress have proven admirably thorough. Ill-advised and futile, but thorough nonetheless.

"Is that so." He says evenly.

Defensively, "Well what'd you expect? You were _being a _DICK and I was _trying_ to teach you a much-deserved lesson." She has to know her vitriol is not conducive to peaceful negotiation –though perhaps she senses he'd respond more unfavorably still to fearful acquiescence, as she makes no indication of her intent to change tack anytime soon, even with this fragile life held in the balance. "If you think this is the way to get what you want, you're wrong. You hurt him, Vegeta, and so help me—"

"What? You'll sic your dead peasant on me? You assume much, thinking I can't be persuaded to forsake Kakarrot's revival for the benefit of burning your world to the ground." In the moment, he means it.

She hesitates. But uncertainty kneels fast before reckless, conquering conviction: "I call bullshit. I know enough about Son-kun to know there's no way you'd pass up the opportunity for a rematch." There she goes comparing him with that idiot again, without a hint of irony, as though she's referenced some non-existent, insultingly over-broad Saiyan character template.

Scornfully, "I'm **not **Kakarrot, woman."

"What'm I, blind? Of course you're not. You'll never be anywhere _near_ the man he is." Unwisely, she elaborates: "Unlike _you_, Goku's not a selfish, ego-powered maniac; he knows how to cherish life, and treats people with humanity and respect! He knows what it means to fight FOR something, and not just against it, and-and! _HE_ appreciates other people's thoughtful hospitality! But above all else," he can see in the anxious determination of her expression that she knows she shouldn't say—"_Goku_ _never loses_." The last words are spoken with coldest precision, a tacit, contemptuous reminder of his recent string of defeats, suffered in turn at the hands of her fool and his tyrant.

Unhurriedly, almost lazily, he hoists the terrified stick of a male aloft, face wiped clean of expression.

The rules of engagement have needed redrafting for months; he's unforgivably overdue reminding this impossible female who he _still is_. It's high time he settled this ridiculous war, in the same manner he'd resolved his very first 'peaceful' negotiation: violently.

The epiphany of his intent drains Bulma's face of color, making the blue of her eyes seem brighter still by comparison. She knows he isn't bluffing.

She breathes, "_Please, __**don't**__—_"

—another time, another planet, another female, the same plea on her lips; but for her own mercy, not the life of another—

Unmoved, he lets go.

Events seem to unfold more slowly as the man plummets. The woman's mouth gapes open, horror blossoming on her stricken features. She watches, helpless, looking sick and –for the first time since the first time he'd seen her back on Namek—**afraid**.

The heady thrill of hard-won victory against a hated adversary is, as ever, _tremendously_ gratifying. He regrets not taking this initiative sooner.

The boy and his sensei will never make it in time; this man's life will end –gruesomely—in the next half-instant or so, and they're both of them yet damning miles away.

He casts the net of his senses past the tardy heroes and well beyond its normal limits, casually curious to know if Bulma's overwrought emotional state might allow him to establish even a rough vector on her location. He fixes his attention to the monitor, studying her expression in defeat. Terrible recognition underlies her horror, that this incidental life is lost as a 'consequence' of _her_ foolish 'action.'

_All the better_, he smirks.

And that's when his world fractures cleanly in half.

Bulma's gaze pulls up, jerking away from the imminent carnage to zero in on him, and then—

—_**VEGETA!**_—

—rips across the surface of his mind, a desperate, deafening peal that knocks into him with almost physical force.

It's the last thing he remembers before he finds himself hefting the human by his left foot, nose scarcely a foot from smacking into the floor and spattering across it. (Still, as he makes no attempt to stop the momentum of her employee's fall, the scientist's brain takes a good, hard rattle.)

Bulma's hands are held against her face in disbelief and residual horror.

Belatedly, as time resumes its regular pace, Vegeta realizes he's just spared this Nothing's pathetic life…for what would appear to be no reason at all. He spends a harried, grasping moment hounding out a rational explanation that simply isn't there.

Recovering himself, "Remember, Bulma;" her name comes angrily to his lips, an unbidden promise, "this is how easily I end life." Dropping the male in a sobbing pile on the floor and forgetting him in the same breath, he takes a challenging step forward. "Your first destination after touchdown is the ship." The 'or else' hangs in the air, heavily implied though left unsaid. So too does the point-blank insinuation that he expects her to be heading back, _right now_.

He doesn't wait for her to respond one way or the other, instead bee-lining for the impromptu entrance in the ceiling he'd fashioned some ten minutes past, ruing his decision to throw in his lot with these _fucking people_, and doing everything in his power to crush all memory of whatever-the-hell had just happened back there –though, predictably, the attempted suppression ensures he's unable to think of anything-fucking-else.

His eyes hadn't left her face for an instant –_not an instant! _He can, therefore, attest –with unshakable certainty—that her mouth moved from its slack-jawed terror not once in the full breadth of those interminable few seconds. But she had just as certainly also shouted at him, his name a shrill-frantic command, her voice overwhelming even her employee's voluble death throes.

The simplest explanation for this disturbing event is also by far the most unsettling: in clear defiance of the rules of a universe styled after any manner of intelligent design, that blue be-damned human female, from some remote, unknowable Elsewhere well beyond even his impressive psychic reach, had very probably just _broken into his mind._

And as close as he can figure…he'd saved a life because of it. Which, if true, means that pale, anemic _freak_ had somehow stayed his hand.

_So much for Saiyan diplomacy_, he thinks in self-derision, off-balanced by the turn of events, and by his own baffling behavior.

"_The air savors of foreboding,"_ he recalls Zarbon once having remarked to him in a grim aside. And so it does again, Vegeta intuits, newly aware of an urgent desire to get as far away from this accursed planet as possible, as _soon_ as possible.

Not even the arrival of the brat and his pet Namekian completely shakes his disquiet -and _that_ is truly alarming.

* * *

Gohan catches up to –and then flashes past—Mr. Piccolo, at first without even realizing it –and he uses up a big chunk of his ki doing so. A dangerously big chunk of his ki. But it doesn't matter, he tells himself, because someone's life is at stake and he can't spare the time to worry about consequences.

Still, he does regret his decision a little, when he intercepts Mr. Vegeta on his way out of a car-sized hole in one of the engineering domes, and can't muster a fast enough reaction to deflect the back-handed blow that sends him smacking into the wall hard enough for it to crack. Something's probably cracked inside _him_, too, he thinks in alarm, because not even his momentary disorientation distracts him from the white-hot agony of his shoulder impacting dense plaster and ripping through thick sheets of fracture-serrated metal at incredible speed.

For a long, scary minute, he can't move or breathe, but as Vegeta doesn't appear interested in a follow-through attack, he closes his eyes and focuses on staying calm. By the time he gratefully sucks in his first new mouthful of air, his sensei's arrived, leaving him a brief window to investigate the fate of Miss Bulma's friend.

Wincing as he pulls himself free of the new Gohan-shaped indentation in the wall, he clutches his right forearm to hold it still and grits his teeth against fresh waves of pain, and then lowers himself to the floor, where a small crowd of white-coated and grease-blackened scientists are congregating around two central figures.

Astonishingly, he discovers, Bulma's employee –Director Lima, according to the badge pinned to the older man's lapel—appears mildly addled and definitely upset, but otherwise no worse for the wear. At his side, a freckled woman whispers words of sympathy, and assures in soothing tones that a doctor's on the way to see him.

He lingers another several seconds, half in mild awe; how on earth had Miss Bulma managed to defuse the situation?

When he determines for sure that the man's life isn't in any danger, Gohan turns his back and takes to the air; maybe there's time to avert disaster yet.

* * *

The Prince and his sensei are…having a staring contest?

For at least as long as he's been outside, Mr. Piccolo and Vegeta haven't so much as blinked an eye between them, much less given any visible sign they know he's there.

_Mr. Piccolo-!_ Gohan begins, only to be immediately shut out. Confused, he tries again to establish contact with his sensei, to tell him Miss Bulma's employee is okay, and again, Piccolo closes his mind.

He doesn't doubt for a second there's good reason for the repulsion, so he hovers in watchful silence just beyond the dome, waiting patiently for his cue. Before long, he finds himself riveted by the standoff, eerily still as it is. Though neither of them have spoken a word, he's been around Mr. Piccolo long enough now to understand that you don't always have to speak to say something, and while the actual content of their exchange is beyond him, he can definitely see the essence of it, manifest in the surging-restless twists of their ki.

Plus, it doesn't take an ability to read auras to pick up on the tension between the two warriors, becoming more oppressive, more volatile with every passing second. The boiling point is near, he senses, and quietly begins to power up.

Then suddenly, Mr. Piccolo flinches like someone's pinched him, diverts his gaze Heavenward, and snarls,

"Stay _out of this_, old man." Gohan can tell, from the deep, ancient anger of his sensei's expression that Kami-sama's making contact. He ventures a glance at Vegeta to gauge his reaction, only to find the Prince unfazed, scowling steadily and floating motionless with his arms crossed, just as he'd been doing before the interruption. The Saiyan seems oddly unbothered by the time-out. In fact, he seems…distracted.

Before he can attempt to look into why that might be,

"_Tch_; fine. But this'd better be damn good." Mr. Piccolo rumbles out loud. Then he sends the Prince a wryly apologetic look. "Sorry, looks like playtime's over. Gohan," he says, eyes never leaving his dad's arch rival, "make sure to stop off at Karin's on the way, see if he's got anything for that arm of yours." Gohan startles slightly; how had he forgotten? "I'll meet you up top."

_You first, kid_. Mr. Piccolo adds, to him alone. He nods, spares a final glance at the moody Prince -who still seems lost in his thoughts- and shoots for the clouds.

* * *

Piccolo appears at the lip of the Lookout with a jarring explosion of sound, unsure why Vegeta'd let both Gohan and himself leave, no questions asked, when it'd been clear they'd come prepared to fight.

But he can puzzle over _that_ particular weirdness later, after he's dealt with Kami. Who's waiting for him, it turns out, leaning against his staff and smiling his crinkly-geezer smile, having anticipated exactly where he'd show up.

Never one for pleasantries, "Alright old man, start talking."

With a broad, mischievous grin, God says only, "I have…a hunch." Piccolo's eyes narrow.

"A hunch." He echoes. "You pulled me outta there for a '_hunch_?'"

"Indeed." Kami cheerfully affirms. Gohan breaches the barrier of Heaven just in time to give him a reason to reconsider killing himself –incidentally, by way of dismembering his double-speaking Other Half. "In my defense, Piccolo, my hunches _do_ have a funny habit of striking true."

"Spare me the all-knowing routine, Kami. We both know you're full of—" Gohan tugs at his pant leg, and he looks down briefly into the face of an anxious, impressionable six-year-old. Whose arm, he notices with relief, is no longer the dangling, shredded mess it had been moments before. The gi's another story altogether, but they'll have time enough to worry about that after his mom gets a hold of him.

Gruffly, he reaches down to tousle the kid's hair, meaning to assure that no violence will happen today. (…probably.)

Begrudgingly, "What kinda hunch?"

"That, my son," Kami waggles his finger at Piccolo, drags a slow, cryptic smile across his lips, "is a secret."

…which Piccolo really should have seen coming.

* * *

*okashi: 'sweet' or 'confectionary'

*-sei: suffix denoting 'planet' (hence 'okashi-sei'= planet okashi)

/-/

next chapter: a shape-shifting feline shacks up at capsule corp, bulma remembers she has a boyfriend, goku loses any chance he might ever've had to win Father-of-the-Year, and vegeta finally-actually steals a damn space ship.

for real this time.

i hope.

either way, though, 130 days are almost up! meaning: vegeta's gonna be pingin' around in space for a year, chasing everyone's favorite butter-brained champion of earth and giddily slaughtering anything that moves.

...but if you think that means v&b won't be having filthy-secret phone sex the entire time he's gone, then you're in for a scandalous surprise, friend.


	7. insultingly unceremonious revelation

who/whom is the DEVIL. i stabbeth thee.

and.

warning: there's quite a bit of uncomfortable tense-squatting happening in this chapter because tidy grammar is for chumps and because for plusly, MY ENGLISH ARE BROKEN.

additionally. Science Speak happens herein, approximately none of which is based on any working knowledge of Actual Science. HOORAY!

[F*CK YOU DISCLAIMER I DON'T EVEN NEED YOU.]

* * *

**chapter seven**

* * *

Her recent memory includes months of prolonged isolation, first on a claustrophobic alien space ship with a couple knuckleheads who'd spent most of their time sitting on the floor meditating at each other; and then on Namek, where the handful of times she hadn't been _outright abandoned_ by her friends she'd either been fleeing for her life from some eldritch terror of the murky deep, or –by the skin of her teeth—_barely_ managing to bullshit her way out of a hostage situation (ironically thanks to aforementioned eldritch terror), or discovering herself Suddenly Amphibious, or regaining consciousness in the aftermath of her unwitting foray into the slimy-wart aesthetic only to learn that the day's weather forecast had been updated to include titanic storms, extreme tectonic activity, and a slight chance of _global apocalypse_.

So when she thinks to herself –for what has to be the twelve-_zillionth_ time—that today's been by far the longest in recent memory, she feels justified imagining the gory-gruesomest of bloody revenges against her 'royal' resident; the evil little prick almost _murdered_ one of her employees –out of _petulance_!

Ultimately, thankfully, he _hadn't _let her director go 'splat,' even though she's pretty sure he hadn't been bluffing and can't account for why he'd changed his mind at the last minute.

Grateful as she'd been for the freak act of mercy, she'd still very much appreciated the gravity of the situation, and braced herself for the shit-storm to come. And come it certainly had.

She'd spent a harried hour putting out fires with her staff –particularly the HR department, whom she only managed to placate after repeated assurances that her Robotics director'd receive the royal treatment for his trouble (as well as a generous raise, should he choose to stay), and that she'll have a proposal whipped up by week's end regarding the appendage of an In-Case-of-Vegeta-Hissy-Fit Clause to the insurance policies of any and all Capsule Corp personnel whose duties require them to work on the property for any length of time. She'd declined to even consider what this is going to cost the company in pecuniary terms because she didn't have the time to spare for an aneurysm.

In the meantime, she's got her army of administrative assistants out on one of easily six trillion Damage Control assignments, one of which includes regular updates on the status of the traumatized Dr. Lima, who was promptly evacuated from the premises in the aftermath of the Prince's temper tantrum and is now holed up in an executive suite at the finest hospital in the city. She'd also taken great pains to keep this story from leaking to the West City press, because the last thing she needs right now is the media finding out that Capsule Corp is currently harboring the extra-terrestrial fugitive who'd come—not even six months ago!—to wipe out all sentient species on the planet.

Then there'd been the hard part: having to tell Chi Chi that her son'd gone flying off to Kami-only-knows-where, for Piccolo-only-knows-why. Alarmingly, Chi Chi hadn't followed the script and flown into a blind rage, and had instead gone into cool interrogation mode, which Bulma of course had to lie her way through, since the truth was that Gohan'd shown up unexpectedly at Capsule Corp in the wake of her almost-fatal argument with Vegeta and been promptly smacked into a wall hard enough to mangle his arm, and that truth was likely to induce Chi Chi to murder cherished, well-meaning friends with frying pans.

Needless to say, after this bit of breaking news, Chi Chi summarily cancelled breakfast, and spent the next several minutes herding everyone into the plane (having apparently divined –correctly—that Capsule Corp'd be the likeliest place he'd turn up), sniping at Bulma in vicious tones all the while. In spite of the younger woman's paroxysms of Maternal Rage, Bulma'd actually been glad for the rush; she'd had a vested interest in getting back quickly, too.

It's a nearly ten-hour trip home, and though initially she'd intended to switch off with her mom or dad at the halfway point, she found she was far too keyed up to let anyone else take the wheel, and ended up driving all the way back by herself, though Son-kun's wife was not without contribution: with Chi Chi hounding her every thirty seconds to _drive faster already_, she managed to shave a whole hour from their estimated flight time.

Dawn is just breaking over the West City skyline when she taxis onto the company lawn –while in the time zone she'd left this morning, it's just getting dark—and she visibly slumps in her seat when it occurs to her that on top of everything else, she's also got a week's worth of jetlag to look forward to. Faaaan_tastic._

Chi Chi's off in search of her son before Bulma even brings the plane to a complete stop, and Ox is quick to follow, though he assures her he'll be back for the luggage after they find his grandson.

As the Briefs disembark moments later, her mom pulls her aside to ask her if she's alright, which she takes to mean that she looks every bit as frayed at the seams as she feels. She deflects her mother's concern, lies point-blank that she's fine, and isn't surprised when her mom calls 'bullshit' with naught but a fine brow, arched with skepticism. Then, smiling brightly as ever, her mom cups a hand tenderly over her cheek.

"Dear, have you considered that he might just be trying to get your attention?" Bulma blanches, because she hasn't said one word about Vegeta or The Incident all day –so how in the world had her mom perceived the source of her furious agitation? With horror, she revisits an age-old suspicion that her mother actually _is_ psychic, and fumbles out one singularly flimsy-desperate denial.

"What—who said this was about Vegeta?"

"Why, darling. You did, just here and now." It takes her a moment to understand that her mom hadn't ever actually specified which '_he_' might be trying to get her attention, another to realize her slip-up, and still another to make sense of the logic that would prompt _anyone_ to believe that Vegeta's treatment of her person is motivated by anything other angry-irritated revulsion. The sly grin slicked across her mother's mouth troubles her. "Boys will be boys, dear, no matter where they're from." Bulma wonders numbly if her mother would have quite the same opinion of Vegeta's behavior toward her if she'd known he'd almost taken a life today just to spite her, and decides hopelessly that yes, she probably would.

At her long-suffering sigh, her mom leans forward and sweeps a quick peck across her forehead, and then dances off after her father, who's already wandered off on his own somewhere.

Putting the off-kilter –albeit strangely uplifting—exchange on the backburner for sanity's sake, she runs by her office, puts on a quick pot of coffee, and calmly packs her tools into an old yellow backpack she finds stuffed into a drawer. Then, she pulls her hair into a crude ponytail –_when did it get so long?_—and changes into an available set of work clothes, a pair of grease-slick overalls and a Capsule Corp tank top, slung across the back of her chair and wadded up on the sofa, respectively. As she polishes off a couple cups of caffeinated nirvana, she types up a quick memo to all Robotics personnel, giving them the day off and requesting that all questions and grievances be held until the following business day, after she's had the chance to 'negotiate' with their live-in terrorist.

…whom she'd probably better go see pretty soon, lest he come looking for her again –which has empirically involved substantial damage to both the property and to company morale.

* * *

Gohan touches down in front of her just as she's crossing the lawn, looking drawn but determined, and implacably certain he's exactly where he needs to be.

"Your mom's lookin' for you, y'know." Gohan skirts his gaze left for a blink, but stays solemnly rooted in place.

She playfully tousles his hair, squats to his level, smiles fondly.

"What's up, kiddo?" She wonders, already well aware he means to follow her into the ship.

"I'm coming with you." He says, his tone brooking no argument.

Unfortunately for him, Bulma's deaf to such tones.

"That's…look, Gohan, I appreciate the offer, but I really think I can handle this by myself." He offers her an incredulous, do-you-really-not-remember-he-almost-killed-that-g uy-a-few-hours-ago look, and doesn't budge. "Okay, fair point."

"I'm coming with you, Bulma." He repeats. She flicks him in the forehead, and gives him a toothy grin when he pouts at her.

"Don't think so, kiddo. Even if my consenting to such an arrangement _wouldn't_ waken your mom's inner-axe murderer –and we both know it would—I'd still ask you to hang back. I'm going in there to try and extend an olive branch, and I think having you along might send the wrong message." To be fair, _she_ _herself_ probably isn't the ideal candidate for brokering peace with the belligerent Prince. She judiciously votes to keep this dispiriting reflection to herself. "Trust me, Gohan. I may not've been too much help back on Namek, but I've got home-field advantage here. I managed to keep him from hurting Lima back there, didn't I?" How exactly she'd done so eludes her, but she doesn't figure admitting as much will inspire confidence in her ability to 'handle' Vegeta. So this, too, she omits from the official record. "And if you can't trust me, then at least trust in Vegeta's own self-interest; he won't hurt me 'til he at least gets what he wants out of me, and that'll be hours from now –plenty of time for me to mend fences. And even if I can't, you'll still be nearby, won't you? If anything happens –and it _won't_—you're just a few seconds away, right?" He nods once, and his stance loses some of its tension.

"I'll stay close." He promises, resolve yet firm.

"Sounds good." She settles her hand lightly over Gohan's shoulder, briefly flashing back to that terrible moment when he'd shown up out-of-the-blue, when Vegeta'd so thoughtlessly flung him aside –what a mess his arm had been… "Senzu?" She wonders aloud, well-beyond relieved to see the grisly damage undone.

Absurdly, he blushes at the question, as though having his arm put through a shredder were somehow _embarrassing_.

"Mister Piccolo sent me to Master Karin's to get one." He explains.

"Well, good on Mister Piccolo, then. I shudder to think what your mom would've done to Vegeta if she'd seen your arm earlier. He dodged a massive bullet and doesn't even know it, huh?" Gohan's blush deepens around a sheepish, heart-warming smile, so very like Goku's. "And speaking of your mom –you'd better get inside and let her know you're here before she turns Capsule Corp upside down looking for you."

He swallows thickly, clearly nervous, but turns to go all the same.

"I'll come quick if anything happens!" He throws back over his shoulder.

"You'd better! And good luck!" She returns his wave, and watches him until he disappears around the bend of the house.

He's gonna need a whole helluva lotta luck to get through the next few hours in one piece.

And for that matter –so will she.

She takes a final moment to compose herself, and then makes for the ship.

* * *

When she peeks through the ship's window, it's to confirm what she already knows, what Gohan's surprise escort mission had made impossible not to deduce: Vegeta's inside. She makes a passing note that the well's dialed up to 50x, before her attention catches on the Prince's figure, hovering several feet above the ground on the opposite side of the sphere. His arms are locked stiff across his chest, and though his face holds its usual measure of menacing contempt, his eyes are closed, and he's holding completely, perfectly still…which must mean he's meditating. And that...surprises her. She's hardly a stranger to the exercise; all the guys swear by it; she just hadn't figured Vegeta for the type.

He's given no outward indication he knows she's there, though she thinks he probably must know since he _always_ seems to know. She's never been able to sneak up on Son-kun, either, she recalls; even as a tyke, he was always the first to know when someone or something was coming.

…unless of course he was sleeping. Or eating. Or zoning out. On second thought, maybe Goku hasn't ever been as perpetually alert-and-aware as Vegeta. But maybe that's just because _Goku_ hasn't pissed off everyone he's ever met and had to spend his entire life sleeping with one eye open.

Chewing on that reflection, she pulls an electric screwdriver out of her bag, stoops near the entrance, peels off the panel concealing the emergency manual override switchboard, and begins deftly rearranging circuitry. When the low frequency hum of the gravity well tapers tellingly into silence, Bulma hops to her feet and palms the access panel, and shimmies aside to wait for the door to drop.

As she toes into the ship, clutching the straps of her bag in a white-knuckled grip, she sees he hasn't moved from his mid-air hover, but that his eyes are open and trained to her. She knows she can't afford to appear anywhere half as nervous as she feels, but it's all she can do not to shrink in on herself at the precision stillness of the anger in his expression.

It's obvious how little he welcomes her intrusion on his contemplation of the void, so she waves at him with her screwdriver to signal her purpose for coming.

"Hey there." She offers, grinning warily. "One with the universe yet?" Her attempt to lighten the mood splinters into pieces against the force of his contempt. After everything that'd happened, she supposes she should've anticipated he'd be more unpleasant than ever.

He doesn't disappoint.

Sneeringly, "Where's your half-breed bodyguard, bitch?" The epithet stings, more than she cares to admit, and seriously tests her shiny-new resolve to avoid doing or saying anything which might prompt him to finish what he'd started earlier today. Threatening to castrate him with a spanner, for instance, probably isn't the best way to open a dialogue.

"His name's 'Gohan,' and you're _damaged _if you think I'd willingly lead my best friend's son into a potential confrontation with you." In spite of her wariness, she manages (what she hopes is) a convincingly incisive Look. "And while we're on the subject –you're to go abso_lutely_ nowhere near him while he's visiting this week. Capice?"

Cocking his head to one side, he grins like he thinks her Very Stern Directive is just the most precious thing he's ever heard. "You assume you could stop me should I wish otherwise?" The acid amusement of his voice comes dangerously close to sending her flying off the handle all over again –which, she reminds herself hastily, would sorta nix the whole 'olive branch' plan.

She straightens, stiffens, very carefully checks the heat of her temper.

In a firm voice, "I love that little boy, Vegeta, and you couldn't throw a stone here without hitting someone else who loves him just as much or more; between us, you better _believe_ we'd find a way to stop you."

"I believe you'd all die trying." Half-suspecting he's trying to rile her on purpose now and feeling far too emotionally strained to get into it all over again with the ever-cordial Lord Petulant Scumbag, Bulma takes a knee beside the gravity well and begins methodically removing the casing, wordlessly laying the argument aside before it finds legs and runs itself afoul of Vegeta's temper. She's nearly finished unpacking and arranging her tools before it occurs to her that he, too, seems content leaving well enough alone. For now, at least.

And she feels…oddly grateful for the reprieve. With a kind of miserable amusement, it occurs to her that her expectations must've plummeted to abysmal depths indeed, if all Vegeta has to do is manage not to be an unbelievable asshole for five minutes at a time to elicit her gratitude.

Still, there it is, and she supposes she might as well use the goodwill while it's there, to help ease her through what's likely to be one of the most unsavory-repugnant things she'll ever have to do: _thank Vegeta_. She'd decided on the flight home that she'd have to acknowledge his Good Deed somehow; positive reinforcement's always better than negative –at least according to her mom—and might just throw for him a loop. She has to try.

…but that doesn't mean she has to like it.

Clearing her throat, Bulma chokes back her pride and begins:

"…thank you." She peeks up at him just in time to catch his features hastily shifting out of bald astonishment. "I'm aware you could just as easily have killed my director this morning, and that you're still planning to kill _all_ of us at your earliest convenience, but for what it's worth…thanks for not going through with it, even if it's just for today." Then, more firmly, "You shouldn't have threatened his life in the first place, as per the terms of my continued hospitality, but I…appreciate that you spared his life…when I know how little it would've cost you not to." While his expression blackens over what must seem to him like some seriously misplaced gratitude, she continues, "…and…I'm sorry."

This part, especially, pains her to say, because it's concession, submission, defeat. And she knows he knows it, too. But for the sake of her planet, her people, and her friends, she also knows it bears saying. One of them has to prove they can be the bigger species.

Taking a deep breath, "About what I said, I mean." It takes every ounce of her willpower not to fidget nervously or throw her gaze all over the room, to hold his level glower without dropping her composure all over the floor. "I won't pretend you weren't _totally_ asking for it –because you _were_—but I still…I shouldn't have said it. I'd never've said anything half as awful to anyone else in the gang—"

"I'm not your damn _friend_, woman." He snaps, by way of reminding her he's not _part _of 'the gang,' that he's got no use for her superfluous contrition.

"_Ob_viously." She grits her teeth against the urge to lash out at him. "Still, I had a lotta time to think about it on the way home, and since _I'm_ the one who asked you to stay in the first place, I s'ppose I should be better about taking responsibility for you. If I'm gonna demand your respect, it's only fair I afford you the same. What I said was –" -_hurtful, hateful, __**cruel**_— "thoughtless. So I guess what I'm saying now is, it won't happen again. Ever. On that, you have my word. In return, I hope you can find it in you to extend me the same courtesy, and refrain from any further…_episodes_ like today."

"If I say no?"

"Well, Vegeta," she begins, measuring her sarcasm, "I'll probably just die of shock." He snorts in what she suspects may be something-like-amusement. "I'm not holding you to anything at the moment. Right now, I'm making a gesture. You decide what to do with it." She turns back to the well, stops short, cuts him a sharp-askance glare. "But I'm warning you, pal; no repeat _incidents_ will be tolerated. You almost-or-actually kill anyone else on this planet, and all bets're off. Got it?"

He doesn't respond, only stares at her –looking weirdly as though he's trying to _tell_ her something, which she thinks he might manage better if he opened his mouth and actually freaking _spoke to her_, but hey, who the hell is she to criticize the Mighty Saiyan Prince's interpersonal failures?

When it doesn't appear as though he intends to _stop_ creepily glowering down at her like he expects her to read his damn mind, Bulma decides the best course of action is to (try to) ignore him, and turns to her task with a fine, anxious quaver that nearly looses her grip on the screwdriver. She drags in a hard, heavy breath, and exhales stony determination to do the job she came to do, so she can Evacuate as soon as freaking possible. Finally, bending at the waist, she reaches out to begin the recalibration surgery –and feels herself being pulled suddenly to her feet, the world a nauseating blur of color and light that upsets her equilibrium and leaves her reeling and unsteady on her feet.

And then, when the world ceases its tipsy twirl, she finds herself staring across an entirely-too-intimate expanse into dark, sleepless eyes, laden with some feral-dangerous derangement she can't begin to decipher. The stark uncertainty of Vegeta's purpose drudges up the white-hot terror she thought she'd left behind somewhere on Namek, and has her jerking back, fighting to escape, but the distance she wins is paltry-pitiful and ultimately meaningless; he's got her wrists in an unbreakable grip, and with the barest insinuating coercion of his fingers against her skin, she's right back where she started.

"Vegeta—!"

"Shut up." He snaps, searching her face for…for _what_? Just what the actual hell is _happening_ here?

In direct defiance of his terse command, "If anything happens to me, Gohan n' Piccolo are right out—_ah_!" He furls one hand around the back of her neck, thumb and middle fingers pressing just so into the soft hollows behind her ears; it's stunningly painful for precisely one half of one instant, and then the pressure's gone, and her desperate admonition with it.

And he's closer now –or she is, and his eyes are wild, angry, _murderous_. And she _doesn't know __**why**_.

At last perceiving her frustrated ignorance, "You don't even know what you've done." His insight menaces, but mute wonderment underlies the acrimonious veneer, and speaks to surprise, bemusement, sudden indecision.

Semi-hysterically, "I'm sure as shit not turning up the grav if you kill me." A predatory smile is all the answer he offers, and then his fingers whisper with tantalizing suggestion as he draws them down the back of her neck, releasing her.

Or, um, _sort of_ releasing her. He's still got her right hand trapped between them, and he definitely doesn't look like he's got any immediate plans to back off. While he continues to peruse her face for who-the-fuck-knows-what, Bulma's heart-pounding terror finally gives way to adrenaline-fueled wrath, which has her demanding to know just what in freaking hell is going on before she has time to consider the consequences.

Vegeta's only, inexplicable response is to notch up his smirk like he knows something she doesn't, something fascinating and awful and obvious as hell, and his utter refusal to provide anything in the way of an explanation for this psychotic episode burns the remaining fear right out of her. She wonders that she'd been anything other than extremely pissed off in the first place.

Austere and placid-cool, "Let me go." His rejoinder is a warm-calloused thumb skimming up her wrist and sliding the slope of her lifeline, and her heart hops up into her throat because _what the __**fuck**__ is he __**DOING**_?

"…or _what_, Bulma?" The challenge comes in a barbed undertone, her name the sultry-sibilant provocation meant to invite violence and reprisal. Bulma spends an anxious interlude furiously scrambling to reestablish contact with her brain, which is at this crucial moment guilty of some serious duty dereliction.

Swallowing hard, grasping frantically for her mislaid fury, "I'm…I'm too tired for this game right now, Vegeta." She flexes her wrist in his grasp, which is feather-light and still far, far more than enough to hold her in place. He draws her closer yet, his breath a fan of heat against her cheek, and she almost doesn't even hear him over the sound of her heart trying to jump-kick its way out of her chest.

"And just what '_game_' do you imagine we're playing, woman?" She isn't prepared for the flash of heat that shudders through her at the gruff iniquity of his interrogation; the effect is potent and visceral-electric, explosive and undeniable, and comes attached to an insultingly unceremonious revelation of the Horrible-No-Good-Very-Extremely-Bad variety: she's attracted to Vegeta.

_Vegeta_, her serial-murdering houseguest from outer space.

She can't pretend she's qualified to assume she knows what the Prince is thinking; just because _she_ could cut the sexual tension with a knife doesn't mean _he's_ got any clue what's playing out here. Though she often forgets, she's slowly learning to appreciate the irreconcilable magnitude of their difference; his behavioral cues are predicated on a life replete with violence and destruction, death and revenge. He probably doesn't even realize what he's doing.

…_right_?

Just as she's entertaining the (horrifying!) possibility that Vegeta might –in his own sinister-terrifying way—perhaps be coming on to her, confusion flickers into his expression, and in the next instant, he's shoving her away, dismissive. Then, disdainfully, without a word, he vanishes, before her very eyes.

When it finally registers that he's actually gone, she sinks to her knees with shaking hand pressed over pounding heart.

_…the hell…_?

* * *

Later that same morning, Bulma stutter-steps at the threshold of the kitchen, startled to see Vegeta, smug-as-you-please, inhaling food at the table. She'd been so sure that, following the events of –her gaze flicks left for the wall clock—just under four hours ago, it'd be days or more before she saw him again.

…clearly, she wouldn't be so lucky.

She hasn't had enough time yet to rationalize her adult-type feelings for the Prince, and she'd kind of been _counting_ on him to put a few continents' worth of separation between them for the next week or so. Or to at least have the courtesy to avoid her like the plague!

She distracts herself with Happy Thoughts of the possible compromise she'd struck before all the…_proximity_ happened, and neatly steals into the kitchen with her heart in her throat. Vegeta doesn't even toss her a glance –which is totally going to piss her off once the relief runs its course.

For now, however, she's perfectly content to share his silence; either he's consciously ignoring her or too preoccupied stuffing his face to bother with such trifles as acknowledging her existence, and either way, he's not insulting or annoying her (-or unexpectedly grabbing her and…and _insinuating_ at her), so this's a welcome treat she intends to make the most of.

As she ducks into the refrigerator to retrieve an apple, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder at Vegeta, expecting him to be focused exclusively on the food in front of him; instead, she finds him glaring up at her, and when their eyes meet she almost glances away, strangely self-conscious, until she remembers she can't let this sicko have the satisfaction of thinking he's _won_ anything and forces herself to hold his angry gaze, to let him know she only looks away when she does because she's good and ready to. (On a related note, the Dire Urgency of her good-readiness has zippo-nadda-nothing to do with the nervous tension cork-screwing low in her gut, which in turn is in no way, shape, or form the product of whatever thoughts she may or may not have entertained on the matter of Vegeta, staring at her. _Intently_. _**Again**_.)

The ensuing silence is nerve-wracking; for its duration, she refuses to so much as look up at the Prince, whose eyes she feels positive are still riveted to her person.

Out of nowhere, "My armor, woman. Any progress?" The oppressive weight of his gaze slides away as suddenly as it'd settled, and she just as quickly decides there's no point reading into anything where this muscle-brained lunatic's concerned; nevertheless, it takes a moment for the tension to ebb, time she uses to wonder at the relative harmlessness of his question.

Then, teasingly, "Why, that sounds an awful lot like you _asking_ for something, Prince Vegeta. But of course I must be imagining things, since you 'don't ask for anything'—"

"Forget it." He snaps, and she giggles at him.

"Oh, don't get your panties in a wad. I'm joking." He remains determinedly shut down. Rolling her eyes, "_Such_ a baby. Yes, I've made some progress with your armor." Pause. "Sort of." He levels a brow at her, which she reads as leave to continue. "I've thrown together a couple mock-ups with roughly equivalent compressive strength and impact resistance, but there's a major sticking point with manufacturing any material of comparably dense elasticity –the 'sticking point' being that we can't because it's impossible." At his blank look, she qualifies, "_For now_, anyway. Obviously I'll figure something out sooner or later, but for the moment, we're still very much in the clunky First Prototype phase. "

"Hn." Even this colorless response is more than she expects (it's more of a reaction than anyone else in the senshi's ever bothered to give when she gets technical), and dares her to hope –almost certainly in vain—that he might be willing to indulge her curiosity on a peripheral subject.

"Mind you, I'm about to get creative with the thermoforming process, which –assuming my calculations are as spectacularly correct as they always are—I'm confident'll be just what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, as I've yet to invent the machinery capable of realizing it, my creative vision's pretty much on hold, at least 'til I've had the chance to implement a few of my more stunningly brilliant ideas. Which makes timeframe the caveat, actually. It could be well into fall before I get the next round of prototypes up for trial and review, and by then Son-kun'll already've been back for two, maybe three months –and who even knows how viable the next batch'll be?" She segues smoothly from Bump to Set—"It's only been –what, like, a week since you loaned me your armor and you're already asking for a progress report? Are you really willing to wait another _three months _for the _possibility_ that I'll have a serviceable reproduction ready-for-action?" And from Set to Spike—"My experience with your patience –the limits of which you've made repeatedly and emphatically clear—has me figuring it's in everyone's best interest to expedite this process as much as possible, though I'm not sure that's in the cards…" Clearing her throat, "Un_less_…" His glance is sharp, seeking, and she can tell he knows she's baiting him. She fully expects him not to bite.

And…he doesn't, not exactly. He drops his eyes to his noodles and remains obstinately quiet. But he makes no attempt to head her off, either, to silence or dismiss her.

Well-aware by now that tiptoeing around the point is absolutely not the way to go with this guy, she cuts right to the chase:

"I don't suppose if I asked nicely, you'd tell me anything about 'Cold Space,' would you?" It's a term Gohan had used at dinner the other night, to recount to her the sparingly few –if academically fascinating—details of the 'galactic empire' Freeza allegedly ruled over. Gohan's intelligence on the matter is also second-hand, though, pieced together from remarks thrown around by the various baddies they'd faced on Namek.

She wants more information, from a direct source.

Of course she'd been curious before, but Gohan's revelatory report had given her curiosity a rabid, unquenchable thirst. An empire spanning galaxies means countless alien worlds, filled with all manner of doubtlessly remarkable alien technology; the possibilities are literally endless, and Bulma's willing to try anything to know what's out there.

Vegeta looks up mid-slurp, eyes sharp over the bowl's bright rim. He looks…hunted.

"No." He says, tone flat.

Too curious to give up and let the –clearly sensitive—issue lie, she changes tack.

"It's just, since everyone was flying around wearing the stuff on Namek, I figured your armor has to be something on the order of standard issue out there, and I thought if I could get a hold of someone out there who knew a bit more about the particulars, I could maybe speed up production a bit, and possibly even churn out the next batch in time to make our second round of wishes –which, you'll recall, is in a little under three days. So, see, I was wondering whether or not you might've stashed one of those beepy eyepiece things somewhere so you could keep in touch with…er, all your…uh, old alien pals?" It sounds just as absurd out loud as it had in her head: Vegeta, with 'pals?' That seems about as likely as Oolong swearing off underwear theft.

Sternly, "I have no such sentimental attachments." She doesn't linger on the gimlet warning in his eyes as he clips off a confirmation of her suspicion.

"Oh, c'mon. Believe me when I tell you how fully aware I am of your unpleasantness, but surely, _surely_ you haven't burned **all** your bridges; there must be someone out there who's wondering what ol' Veggie's up to." He shovels something recently dead and still bleeding into his face, refusing to respond.

By sheer force of will, she successfully tamps down the impulse to stab him in the face with a fork, and presses on.

"Okay, so maybe you don't have a way to get in touch with anyone. How would ya' feel about maybe helping me map out a major interstellar commercial route instead? Preferably somewhere _not_ embroiled in whatever post-Freeza fallout's happening out there. We've got Namek's…or-er what…_used to be_ Namek's coordinates plotted into our databases, and star maps of all the intervening space between here and there, thanks to the data we retrieved from Son-kun's trip. So we've got a reference point of sorts, but beyond that what we've got is a bunch of anonymous space." He tears all the flesh from a leg of turkey in a single pull, as usual offering naught in the way of response. Glossing right over his rudeness, "I'm willing to wager that our navigation systems here, when we break 'em down to the math, aren't so totally different from whatever systems you're used to; all I'd need you to do is give me a run-down of the basic method, and then maybe help me get a vector on—"

"I'm not a damn navigator, woman." He boldly meets her gaze, his voice is steady; so she doesn't know quite why she's immediately sure she's been served an untruth.

Opting for logic instead of pique, "No, I know that. But you came here to Earth in those little one-man pods, after presumably having gotten yourself around in similar fashion plenty of times before that –I can't imagine you don't have _some_ navigational know-how." He snorts, but doesn't argue the point. "I can guide you through what I need, and I promise it won't take too much of your oh-so-valuable time…"

He's pretending to ignore her again, so they enter a brief lull, with Vegeta knocking back a glass of water, half a bowl of noodles, and a dozen or more pieces of sushi, while she manages only two, angry-contemplative bites of her apple.

Cajolingly, "This is partly for your benefit, too, y'know. Maybe you aren't aware, but there're some seriously tricky mechanics involved in getting your armor to accommodate sudden, radical changes in mass—you try to go all giant were-monkey in the prototypes we've got now, and those puppies'll snap right off—"

There's something terrifying in his expression that stops her cold, something primal and –wounded, somehow, and she winces when she realizes she's probably just hit a huge, throbbing nerve.

Somehow, she'd forgotten –the elastic properties of the armor are moot now, because Vegeta can no longer transform.

Because Vegeta no longer has a tail.

She hates herself for the stab of instinctive pity; he'd lost the damn thing because he'd come here with the express purpose of Complete Annhilation,* after all. Earth dispensed her lesson at considerable personal cost to the dispossessed Prince; still, Bulma feels –as she always has—the price was fair.

And yet…she sees now that he'd lost something by far more precious than the tail itself; the twisted anger of his expression reveals the incalculable tragedy of a loss of self, of an identity shorn of its most essential component. Perhaps she's underestimated Son-kun's decision to keep the Prince alive, after all; for the first time, she can see it not simply for the mercy she'd always assumed, but also for devastating punishment.

For reasons she chooses not to dwell on, she feels just awful for her inadvertent injury, and makes an unintended offer to mitigate her guilt:

"If you'd like, I can have a working prototype ready for you in the next couple days; it won't have any frills, but for your purposes, it'll do in a pinch."

Suspicious and clearly unwilling to reap the rewards of her pity –"Why?" He asks her pointedly.

"Why offer you a potential advantage, you mean?" Just as pointedly, but without yesterday's malice, "Because you're the one who's going to need it."

* * *

*phrase lifted right outta the man-tacular minds of TeamFourStar.

and.

the bad news is that i'm now fully aware that i have Zero Control over what's being written as i write it. the GOOD news, otoh, is that i'm now also definitelydefinitely sure i know where this story's going, as well as exactly how it's getting there, which isn't something i could've said, like, fifteen minutes ago, so.

progress…?

next chapter: vegeta's never gonna steal that f*cking spaceship, is he...?

[finally. there's some veggie introspection on all the _proximity_ scheduled for an upcoming chapter. probably the same chapter in which he's slated to brutally dismember an old acquaintance. HOORAY!]

to **lilian**: kami knows a whole helluva lot less than he thinks/pretends he does, but with only his once-evil Other Half to call him on his bullsh*t, there's really no convincing him he's _not_ just making educated guesses. to answer your question -no, i'm pretty sure kami's none-the-wiser about bulma's Accidental Telepathy; still, watching an unrepentant destroyer of worlds inexplicably save a life has to tip him off that Something's Afoot. (thankyouthankyou for you lovely reviews, you gorgeous darling, you.)


	8. somehow infinitely worse

I'M SO SORRY IT'S BEEN SLOW GOING, GAIS. i were finishing up school in SOUTH F*CKYEAH KOREA, and had only verylittletiny times to write, sooooooooooo. awfully lamejames of me, i know. (even georgie double-r martin writes faster 'n this, _surely_).

although maybe you'll wish i'd stayed away longer, since this chapter is an EXPOSITION BEAST.

GOOD LUCK TO YOU ALL.

[look, i don't claim to understand the disclaimer, i just enforce it. blindly, and without hesitation. -lk]

* * *

**chapter eight**

* * *

**Age 747**

_Light, coruscating; a familiar shadow, lengthening, broadening to impossible dimensions; and pain –acute, unrelenting pain so extraordinary it goes mercifully beyond his capacity to feel it._

_"Vegeta…?" He croaks, barely sensate and fading fast._

_But the boy is gone, subsumed; and in his place –a giant, sprung from literally nowhere, silhouetted against a distant, flickering ball of pale, radiant light that even his agony-addled mind knows hadn't been there a moment ago._

_"ZARBON?** ZARBON**?!" An unknown voice booms, fraught with unmistakable concern; but while it hasn't come from the towering, scouter-shattering behemoth currently filling his vision, it has –most definitely—come from something with lungs large enough to produce precisely the sort of thunderous, earth-rattling roar he'd expect from a beast of roughly equivalent size, which bewilders him further still, because he can't fathom why such a creature would vex itself over his promising future as a corpse._

_Alas, it doesn't appear as though he'll be conscious long enough to portion any sense from his sudden surfeit of bizarre-and-baffling circumstance; even as he makes one last, desperate attempt to call out to the broken child he thought he'd saved, his mind quiets, and he feels the life in him stealing away like a thief in the night._

_At the threshold of oblivion, Zarbon spares one final, abstracted thought to wonder how in the world his spontaneously materialized, jumbo-sized were-neighbor came to be wearing –an admittedly much larger version of—Vegeta's exact battle ensemble, down even to the gold-tipped boots._

_Then, darkness._

_/-/_

_He wakes up in a tank, blinking his second set of eyelids briefly against the acid sting of chemicals; adjusting to the thick, swimmy texture of the world filtered through cool blue fluid; staring half in disbelief as his eyes finally resolve his immediate visual reality: before him stands the heir of a collapsing Empire, sleepless gaze severe and...oddly hollow._

_"Zarbon." Vegeta acknowledges, voice raw, edged with some unknowable strain._

_"Come to chasten me for daring to save your life?" He drawls, feeling by now well-qualified in reading his pupil's behavioral cues; the little mammal has such **issues **with accepting help –especially when circumstances are most dire. (And circumstances had abso_lutely_ been dire.) "No need; I'm already regretting it." The boy's eyes narrow to slits, though it serves only to make him look more tired, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced._

_"Death claimed you." The Prince reports in a dull monotone._

_Thoughtfully, "…did it now?" He begins to wonder what's running through Vegeta's mind, why the child's even here at all. "S'ppose that explains the headache."_

_"**Zarbon**." Vegeta warns, sinister. Only Zarbon's got no clue what he's being warned **about**. And he knows better than to expect the fallen Prince will clarify his meaning without a little strategic prompting._

_He figures The Beginning's a good enough place to start. "**How **are we **alive**?" The boy smiles a smile without a hint of humor in it. "Clearly you managed to defeat Zeeun, or I doubt seriously we'd be having this friendly chat in the first place. The question is, **how in nine galaxies did you do it**?" He'd seen the read-out as plainly as his Saiyan companions; Zeeun's power level was nearly twice Zarbon's maximum** in his transformed state**. Vegeta, meanwhile, clocks 16,000 on a good day, but hovers generally around the upper-limits of 15,000. It's inconceivable that the boy had taken down someone who so radically outdistanced him in power. Who so radically outdistanced **himself **in power._

_And it's all the more unbelievable that he'd done so with that grisly, mortal-looking wound he'd sustained before Zarbon could come to his defense...which, now that he's looking, no longer seems to afflict the Prince. Meaning Vegeta's been in a tank of his own, long enough to repair the considerable damage he'd taken, with at least a handful of days left over thereafter for the boy to forsake sleeping altogether, if the edgy, unstable aspect of his glare is anything to go by. Just how long **has** he been in this tank, anyway...?_

_Cutting at last through the oppressive silence, "A trick of the light goes a long way." The Prince says cryptically, flexing the fingers of his right hand in a puzzlingly deliberate manner. Unclear about whether or not he's supposed to be able to parse the meaning out of this riddle, Zarbon hefts a brow and automatically begins to fold his arms across his chest –and promptly discovers that even this reflexive, nothing movement racks his entire frame; even suspended as he is in the tingly healing solutions of the regen tank, his body locks against the agonizing shock; the pain is excruciating –and…somehow…redolent…?_

_—a brilliant ball of light; an impossible monster, spun apparently from thin air, and curiously attired in the Prince's battle dress—_

_"**You**…" He begins, twitching, his body still suffering through harrowing paroxysms, "you were…that…" Holding himself as perfectly still as possible, he breathes carefully through the waning ebb of his torment, at length opening his eyes to behold Vegeta, much unchanged but for the silent affirmation of Zarbon's yet-unvoiced certainty: through the delirium of his –actually fatal—near-death experience, he'd inadvertently witnessed what precious few in the entire Emporium had ever lived to tell about –the Saiyan transformation._

_That Saiyans are capable of transforming to a higher state is common knowledge; that a full moon triggers the change is conventionally accepted as fact; beyond this basic intelligence, however, everything else –from the mechanics of the transformation to the precise magnitude by which a transformed Saiyan's power level is amplified—is relegated to the realm of popular speculation, second-hand reports, and rumor._

_And no surprise there, really, since those privy to the transformation tend to be the natives of planets with moons, who unfortunately are never available to provide their much-coveted first-hand testimonials of the encounter, owing primarily to reasons of Untimely, Purge-Induced Death. Saiyans only very rarely leave survivors to begin with, but when deployed to systems with lunar bodies, the barbaric little mammals become ridiculously, impeccably efficient at the planet-clearing business; purge missions which might otherwise take a squad days to complete instead take only a handful of hours, and in the aftermath, scarcely any vestige remains to suggest any sentient species had ever lived there at all. Lord Freeza'd stopped deploying survivor search-and-rescue missions to lunar systems decades ago; it hadn't taken long to appreciate the (very expensive) futility of it all. _

_If the folk wisdom could be believed (though obviously it couldn't), a Saiyan in this higher ki state might suddenly be in possession of a power level in excess of **ten times **their basal level in unaltered form, which might account for the redoubled efficiency of the aptly named 'Lunar Units' (as they're popularly known along the Imperial grapevine)...if such a figure weren't so completely and baldly preposterous._

_When he'd caught wind of the young Saiyan Prince's rare, formidable power, Lord Freeza had gone to great lengths to either verify or debunk these fantastic reports -even going so far as to bring said Prince under his wing, to be raised in Cold Space...though ultimately to no avail. Among his other duties as trainer, his Lord had tasked him with divining the secrets of the Saiyan transformation, but anytime he was dispatched with Vegeta's retinue to clear planets with moons in full phase, Vegeta either refused to go planet-side, or simply torched the world from orbit, likely at the insistence of his Saiyan watchdogs. It became clear rather quickly that the secrets of their transformation were being closely, deliberately guarded. Lord Freeza remained in ignorance because the Saiyans carefully ensured it. (Frankly, Zarbon's impressed at the brutes' discretion. He'd never've thought them capable.)_

_At last, unwilling to gamble on the possibility that the rumors might be true, or that in the future some Saiyan might be born to a power even greater than Vegeta's, Lord Freeza'd made the executive decision to cleanse the universe of its Saiyan pestilence, once and for all. By his Master's reckoning, there'd been a large inventory of reasons the 'upstart monkeys' had been wanting for destruction, but certainly chief among these reasons had been a clawing wariness of the unknown. A race that had, in a single generation, seen a triple-fold expansion of their Imperial holdings and which had, furthermore, recently produced the likes of Vegeta (and one or two other notable younglings with dangerously high ki projections, whose low birth, unfortunately for them, had made them expendable), presented a growing threat which could no longer be borne._

_Now, scarcely a month after Vejiitasei's destruction, following decades of his Lord's unsatisfied curiosity, Zarbon knows. He knows now that the Saiyans (or at least one among Vegeta, Radditz, and Nappa) have a method for engineering artificial moonlight -because there's not a planet in this entire system with a moon of its own, and there sure as hell hadn't been a satellite in the sky when they'd found Zeeun. And he knows, too, the tail's no vestigial organ harkening back to an ancient past -it's an integral feature of their true, gigantic, simian beast form; and actually, considering the Saiyans' grave, uncompromising determination to keep so obvious and vital a liability, Zarbon wouldn't be surprised if those hyper-sensitive tails weren't somehow crucially involved in the transformation process. Most importantly, he knows that his Master had been right to be so leery of the Saiyan transformation, because it had enabled a grievously injured Vegeta -whose power is middling at best in the Cold Emporium- to take down a warrior on par with one or two of the higher tier members of the Ginyu Force. The previously outrageous 'magnitude of ten' power amplification seems a great deal less like groundless exaggeration, now._

_Pointlessly, as the Prince's ferocious glower falters, just for an instant, and he perceives through the blue glass of the tank a haunted child, frustrated by a harrowing, hopeless despair he's got no way of naming and no effective means of fighting, Zarbon wonders if this intelligence might've been enough to save Vegeta's planet, if only he'd had it four weeks prior._

_Unlikely, he decides, chastising himself for such unbecoming sentimentality. It's useless to dwell on what's done._

_"No doubt Lord Freeza will be wanting an explanation for your astonishing triumph," he begins at last, choosing his words carefully for fear of the walls having ears, "which I of course will be unable to provide, as you may recall I was dying at the time. Pity, that, 'cause I think I'd've enjoyed seeing your so-called 'light' show." Vegeta's brow furrows with calculating skepticism -understandably, as there's little mistaking Zarbon's seconds-old epiphany as the product of anything other than his Master's much-desired corroboration of the awesome potential of the Saiyan transformation. Zarbon knows, and Vegeta can plainly see that he does. Just as Zarbon can see the young Prince attempting to fit his mind around a valid reason why his sensei -his greatest enemy's closest, personal aide- would suddenly pretend ignorance of this crucial intelligence._

_Finally, "Save it, Zarbon. It doesn't matter anymore." He hears the deeply-felt nihilism in the declaration: it 'doesn't matter' that he'd seen the transformation, and his well-meaning -if obviously confusing- intent to remain silent on the matter is equally meaningless. Vejiitasei's already gone; there's no one left for the secret to protect._

_Except Vegeta himself, that is. The boy's power level has nearly doubled since he's been in the care of the Cold Empire, and he's long spans away yet from reaching his full potential. If Lord Freeza were to discover exactly how astonishingly powerful the young Vegeta's likely to become in his prime, Zarbon is certain the Prince's novelty and entertainment value will enter a period of rapid depreciation. Disclosing the Saiyans' secret would, undoubtedly, drastically curtail Vegeta's life expectancy._

_On the other hand, supposing Vegeta's power level eventually climbs enough to place him in the higher echelons of the Empire, and then even with a ki amplification of twenty or thirty times, the Prince **still **wouldn't stand a chance against the power his Master has hidden away in higher forms of his own. He's no true threat (and never will be), and anyway, now that the Saiyans number only three, there's nothing really for the Emporium to gain from the intelligence. Thus, Zarbon reasons, withholding the information is less unforgivable treason and more...routine failure to perform his due diligence._

_Rationalization settled, "All the same." He insists, tugging a grin across his mouth as his charge lapses into a furious pout._

_Disdainfully, "Tch; do whatever the hell you want."_

_"Oh, I always do." Zarbon gleefully assures._

_And perhaps the gesture's meaningless, after all, as it's the only time they ever discuss it, obliquely or otherwise. But even after Vegeta dismisses Zarbon as his trainer, even after he callously murders one of Zarbon's oldest comrades, even after he defects and scrambles for the power to destroy Zarbon's liege-lord, Zarbon holds to his unspoken promise, and Freeza's curiosity remains ever an unsated quantity._

* * *

Vegeta opens his eyes to pale, dusky darkness slanting through the ship's windows.

_This isn't working_, he decides, resigning himself to the pointlessness of continuing, and deeply desirous of someone to murder.

Two days at a stall in his training, stuck at 70x Chikyuu's gravity, to which he's now added hours of meditation expended to no effect, captive to an unbidden memory he'd fully intended never to revisit. One he'd locked away, unable to process it, unwilling to try.

Okashi-sei.

"_**You**_..._you were...that..." Smooth features reflect shock and incredulity, followed by long silence and burgeoning resolve. _

The first time he remembered himself post-transformation, he'd been fifteen turns into his life, newly homeless, and on a Class-6 Agitator world called 'Okashi,' where he'd gone Oozaru to save his trainer. To save _Zarbon_, Freeza's favorite lapdog. Zarbon, who wrested him from the sure grip of death, to his own peril.

Zarbon, who is now dead by his hand.

For the third time in as many hours, Vegeta shuts this reflection down before it ever really has the chance to begin.

Frustrated, he unfolds himself from his mid-air hover, cursing Bulma in a colorful spate of languages. _She_ is the source of his cerebral preoccupation with this egregious episode.

_"Maybe you aren't aware, but there're some seriously tricky mechanics involved in getting your armor to accommodate sudden, radical changes in mass—you try to go all giant were-monkey in the prototypes we've got now, and those puppies'll snap right off—"_

Though not in so many words, the woman carelessly all but spelled out the full extent of her familiarity with the subject of the Saiyan transformation. The form and approximate dimensions she'd spoken to directly, and the guilty startlement with which she choked off her long-winded persuasion leaves him little room to doubt she's also already aware his ability to transform was lost with his tail.

It's offensive to him_, _actually _offensive_ that this small woman on this small world has such intimate knowledge of his heritage, of this secret his people had so charily guarded. But the real insult of this injury exists in his unsettling suspicion that she may somehow have grasped something of the real psycho-social significance of a Saiyan's tail, and that she _pitied_ him for his loss. Her obstinate refusal to fear him is one thing; ill-conceived and incomprehensible, yes, but also occasionally, unexpectedly entertaining. Her _pity_, meanwhile, drives his hatred for her to dizzying new heights.

The woman has disturbed his calm. Shattered his focus. Unearthed unpleasant history. Successfully talked him out of liquidating her staff. _Broken into his mind_.

And here again, the ugly root of the problem. Much as he's attempted to pass off her freak intrusion as one in a frightening series of increasingly worrisome flukes, he's beginning to wonder if there's something more insidious at work between himself and his squalling harpy of a host. Something well beyond his realm of expertise.

As a mercenary in the service of the largest intergalactic Empire in the known universe, he's encountered and killed his fair share of psychics, and learned to recognize certain subtle scent and behavioral cues common among them. The woman neither smells like nor conducts herself in the smug, knowing manner of every esper* he's ever met, and is, moreover, shockingly devoid of even the most rudimentary psychic defense, and utterly out of touch with herself. Two days past, when he'd taken it upon himself to willfully violate the sanctified privacy of her mind (a necessary, albeit disgusting, experiment), she'd had no idea, and no capacity to expel him, besides. Unless the human brain is exponentially more complex than it seems -and his overall impression of humanity suggests it isn't- then there's no way the woman is telepathic.

And it's somehow infinitely worse that she isn't. Because it means her infiltration was an accident. Which means she hadn't even been trying, hadn't even known she'd done it, and she'd still managed to reach him from however much of the planet she'd put between them. He can't begin to guess what the hell _that_ means (though he's willing to wager it doesn't mean anything good), but it does lead him to reconsider, fleetingly, whether the promise of a rematch with that gilded third-class idiot is actually worth the extravagant cost of suffering the woman's existence for another _entire day_. After all, if she's the one who's upset his equilibrium, it stands to reason that removing her might restore it and enable him to move forward with his training.

Then again, he grudgingly acknowledges, there _is _a certain utility to her. She's due any minute now to deliver the 'no frills' prototype armor she pledged to have ready for him toward the close of their breakfast quarrel two days prior. Also, though he'd been through seven hells to force her compliance, Bulma _did_ cede to his command in the end, and he now has the full gravity access he's entitled to. For all the troubling distraction she causes him, it's hard to argue that he hasn't received benefit from her endless technological aptitudes.

Further, as his immediate plans for the future include defeating Kakarrot, clearing Chikyuu, and then_ on this very ship_, promptly getting the hell off this rock, never to return, he recognizes the possibility that the woman's sire might take umbrage and refuse to instruct him in the proper method for controlling the craft's space flight and navigational capablities if he were to savagely murder the old man's daughter beforehand. These Earthers are nothing if not inordinately sentimental about their offspring.

Ultimately, he reassures himself, whether he ends her personally or anonymously with the rest of her world after he's put Kakarrot down; or if, in the not unfeasible event of his own defeat, he meets with his own demise, he takes great comfort in the thought that one way or the other, he'll be rid of her soon enough.

Intuiting that additional efforts to overcome his training block today will be wasted, he grabs a mislaid towel from its haphazard perch at the lip of the well, and absently flings it over one shoulder while he taps out the sequence to deactivate the gravity. Still seething at the setback, he crosses to the entrance, already making plans to pay the woman's father another visit for a necessary lesson in quitting this fucking world, courtesy of Capsule Corp. He takes roughly five steps before the hatch drops open seemingly of its own accord. Then, Bulma Briefs strolls gingerly through the doorway, cradling a single suit of armor against her hip.

* * *

Bulma doesn't try to stall for time; she's got an appointment to keep, a delivery to make, and she's not gonna let a little thing like her sick-and-wrong bedtime feelings for an intergalactic war criminal affect her calm. The attraction's not something she can fight; it's too late because it's already _there_, and sure it's disturbing and probably symptomatic of some larger psychological malfunction on her part, but does it really _change_ anything?

Vegeta certainly hasn't done anything to adjust her previous opinions of him; he's still unquestionably a Bad Guy. Even if he'd come back from Namek _comparatively _docile, he'd still visited unnecessary carnage unto her father's dino-bestie (although perhaps she'd been mistaken on that score, since -to her knowledge- her dad has _still _yet to realize ol' Rexy's no longer prowling the grounds), mutilated her lab, and threatened an innocent life, for no good goddamn reason. And, as he never tires of reminding her, he still means to Murder Everything the first chance he gets, and then take off for space for more of the same.

More than that, he's still the villain who'd killed Yamcha, and Chaotzu and Ten (and Piccolo, though at the time she'd only been able to mourn his loss as it affected the dragonballs), and very nearly Krillin, Son-kun, and little Gohan in the aftermath. (He hadn't murdered any of her friends directly, of course, but it'd been obvious from the start that he was the one calling the shots between the giant bald guy and himself, and pretending he isn't every bit –or more—responsible for the deaths of her loved ones would make her delusional.) And the deaths of untold billions more are also his to claim, since long before she knew there was such a thing as a 'Saiyan,' or that the Universe was quite so large.

No, nothing's changed. She knows he's bad news. She also knows indulgence in a little harmless fantasy is fine, so long as she understands there's no place for it in reality. Attraction is biological, chemical, out of her control. But millions of years of evolution have given her the ability to choose to ignore her own insane hormonal impulses. This is okay. Fucked up, but okay, because nothing's ever going to come of it.

Bulma feels very zen about her decision to accept her mental illness for what it is, the better to move past it. And hopefully someday, she'll will herself into forgetting all about it.

Hence, she doesn't dawdle when it's time to meet him with his new digs; in spite of lingering, disgusted astonishment at herself for having the capacity to find a guy actively plotting her death anything other than completely-fucking-terrifying, she's confident her composure'll hold through both the armor exchange and the party invitation she's been sent out to deliver.

'The party' being her mother's idea, naturally, because her mom loves playing hostess, and -as her mom'd said herself- because it might, _just maybe_, give Vegeta a valid reason to postpone his grudge match with Goku.

_"Make sure the dear young man knows there will be plenty of my famous crepes! He does enjoy them, the darling."_

It's sound strategy, plying Vegeta with food -as a Saiyan, eating is one of three principal activities, together with training and fighting. Tomorrow afternoon, when Son-kun's wished back, she can't imagine Vegeta _won't_ want to get straight down to business, because she's learned the Hard Way that the entitled little prick isn't one to wait when he wants something. And what he wants is to defeat Son-kun in a fight to the death. Which, regardless of the outcome, would entail an end to their short-lived respite sooner rather than later.

Unless Vegeta can be persuaded to...consider his options. Specifically, his _dining_ options. Her mom's right: the Prince _does _seem to enjoy her cooking, and with Chi Chi on board as Head Chef for her own family's sake, Bulma hopes he'll be hard-pressed to ignore his nose in favor of his battle instincts when they wheel out all the dishes tomorrow. It's smart, she thinks, hedging their bets like this, and it's just like her mother to come up with such a simple, well-meaning ploy.

_Not that it's guaranteed to work_, she grimly reminds herself. Just because Son-kun can usually be counted on to be distracted by food, that certainly doesn't mean Vegeta will be.

But...perhaps it's best not to dwell on the possibility that her front lawn might soon become the next battleground for Earth. At least not while she's currently on her way to meet the guy who gets to make that fateful call tomorrow. The unreality of the whole situation -of her whole _life_- nearly prompts her to hysterical laughter. Or tears. Probably both.

Lucky for her, though, her best friend's supernaturally powerful, half-alien six-year-old pops into existence on the footpath ahead of her, and she's so startled at his sudden appearance that she totally forgets...er, whatever the hell she'd just been freaking out about.

"Bulma!" It's hard to be angry at the little guy for scaring her half to death when he seems so genuinely happy to see her.

"What's up?" And he _is_ still a kid, she thinks, because what he says next comes tumbling out of him at incredible speed, words crashing into and over each other in his effort to get them all out at once. When he's finished, she takes a brief pause to try and mentally untangle the speech, but she's pretty sure she's got the gist: Gohan finished the last of his homework a few hours ago, and ever since, he's been running around the main terrarium with Dende and 'Mr. Piccolo,' learning new ki techniques and playing tag -_without_ official sanction from his mother.

The next bit brings a guilty flush to his cheeks: "You haven't..._seen_ her, have you?" Bulma cracks a quick grin; she's glad Gohan's adding some sneak and deception to his repertoire. Does a kid good, far as she's concerned.

"Nope. Haven't seen your mom at all today, kiddo. But I wouldn't worry too much 'til closer to dinnertime; she n' my mom are in the auxiliary kitchen cooking up half the continent for tomorrow's home-coming, so she'll be occupied for a while yet. Your dad's got a big appetite." He exhales a heavy sigh of relief. "And while we're on the party subject, I should probably make a detour here and ask one of the Namekians if they've got any special requests, cuisine-wise. I know they mostly subsist on water, but I've noticed sometimes they put in calls for fruits, nuts, or grains. Maybe there's some food they prefer to eat for celebrations...?"

"Mr. Piccolo likes fish." Gohan contributes. "You could ask him." Something in her seizes at the notion.

"Um...but, isn't Piccolo from Earth? He probably wouldn't know too much about the appetites of Namek-born Namekians."

"Well, that's true. But he fused with a Namek-born Namekian while we were there, and now he knows all sorts of stuff about them that he didn't before." Bulma blinks at him. The kiddo's disturbingly matter-of-fact about Piccolo allegedly 'fusing' with one of his estranged relatives. She doesn't know what the heck 'fusing' _means_, but it definitely sounds like it merits more than a neutral recitation of the fact.

"Uh, right. He 'fused' with somebody. Of course."

"He fused with Mr. Nail, who used to be the Saichourou's protector." Clearly, Bulma missed way more than she thought while she was froggin' it up on Namek.

"And this...'fusing' thing. It's permanent?"

"For Namekians it is. Elder Muuri says that's why it's usually forbidden, because one of the life forces in the union gets..._subsumed_." She can tell by the way he emphasizes it that he's trying out a new word, maybe the very one Muuri had used to explain the 'fusion' to him. "But Mr. Piccolo says he still feels Mr. Nail sometimes, and that he's got a lot of his memories, too." She nods, absorbing this strange new information. The past couple minutes've yielded some interesting trivia about ol' Ma Junior, and she adjusts her perceptions accordingly. "That's why he probably knows how to help. You should come ask him."

"What, right now? I-" Gohan doesn't give her the opportunity to say no, instead grabbing and pulling her along toward the terrarium as though her assent were a foregone conclusion. Which, for the record, it _wasn't_. Because adjusted perceptions or no, Piccolo still scares the bejeezus out of her.

But perhaps she's being too hard on the guy. He _had_ recently sacrificed himself to save Gohan, and he'd sided with the good guys again on Namek, and now he's pretty well-settled into his Angry Babysitter role, so maybe he's...friendlier? It can't hurt to try to engage him, she supposes, since she's apparently in the business of extending olive branches to former foes these days, anyway.

Her cautious optimism deflates when she spots him, in a seated hover over one of the enclosure's smaller streams, glaring down her approach.

"Hey, kid." He acknowledges Gohan with a curt nod, casually ignoring her. Dende rushes up from behind a nearby nest of plants she can't identify, all smiles.

"Hello!" He greets, and her answering smile comes easily.

"Good afternoon, Dende."

"Bulma came to talk with you." Gohan suddenly blurts out, looking at Piccolo. The Demon King levels his gaze upon her, and she fights the very real urge to flee in terror.

After an awkward moment of silence, she fills him in on the party situation, and warily wonders aloud if he might have any input on the food selection on behalf of either his people or himself. Thankfully, he doesn't try to melt her into goo with the 'laser eyes attack' Gohan swears he's seen Piccolo use. But he doesn't do much anything else, either. He just stares at her, expressionless. Unless that sour expression he wears all the time counts...

"I, uh, I already invited Muuri and the others, so I could go ask someone else if you're busy." She's already backing slowly away. Then, struck by sudden inspiration, "By the way, before I go -there's no telling whether or not he'll actually come, but I'm inviting Vegeta, too, just in case." Piccolo hefts an incredulous brow, which is about as much reaction as she's ever managed to pull out of the would-be demon overlord.

Looking as though he'd rather swallow his own tongue than dignify her with any manner of response, "You realize he's probably gonna give the kid shit about his idiot father, don't you?" His concern for Gohan's feelings is obvious, and surprising. Though she'd spent the past months watching the interaction between old enemy and cherished child with subdued awe, this is the first time she's seen them together up close. It changes everything.

Back in the moment, Bulma waves him off with a small moue.

"C'mon, Piccolo. You have to know by now: this is how we _do _things here; Vegeta won't warm up to us if we don't invite him to the get-togethers." Although technically, they've never invited _Piccolo _to any get-togethers...

"That, is asinine." The acid-eloquence of his reproof is deafening.

"Bad Guys need love, too." She insists. There's a sly twist to the grin she's wearing, a blatant indication she's also talking about _him_. "Even if none of you crossed-arm-scowling-types can bring yourselves to admit it." Piccolo crosses his arms and scowls straight through her. "Speaking of which…" She begins, as ever completely without subtlety, "You're definitely invited, too—"

"No." Piccolo interjects. She backs away instinctively.

"Well, fine. No one's saying you have to come. But you're still invited—"

"**_No_**." He says, this time with a friendly dash of 'go the fuck away.'

"Okay, okay, I get it. Not big on parties. But Gohan and Dende'll probably both be there, and I just thought—" Her final solicitation ends in a choked, startled cry, as the ground beneath her literally begins to give way. Barely jumping out of the way in time to avoid plummeting through the earth via Capsule Corporation's brand new sorcery-born sinkhole, she cradles the armor against her chest like a lifeline and bolts, not even bothering to spare the children a wave goodbye.

Just when she starts developing something of a sense of security around the guy, the Demon King peeks out to let her know he's still there. Dende and his self-appointed protege are clearly the only ones exempt from his emotional terrorism.

Cursing herself for lowering her guard, she pulls the armor down under one arm, and reevaluates her previous equanimity. The _freaking planet tried to swallow her_! At Piccolo's freaking behest! Her nerves are shot, and now she's late getting to yet another blood-thirsty arch-villain who lives in her home, one with a zero tolerance policy for waiting, who will likely disparage and berate her, goad and threaten her into giving him a reason to move closer (_too close_), to back her into the wall or the well, to breathe words heavy with double meaning in low tones-

"Sonuva_bitch_." She grumbles, absently fanning herself and counting to ten.

So much for her unshakeable composure.

* * *

After the blue girl leaves, the kid turns to him.

"That wasn't very nice, Mr. Piccolo."

"Oops." He manages, not in the least repentant. Gohan frowns, and he feels suddenly, annoyingly compelled to justify his actions.

"A little terror never hurt anyone." The kid's stare doesn't waver. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the runt's brow crinkle with similar disapproval.

_Goddammit_.

"Alright, kid. I'll try to play nice with your blue friend." Placated, Gohan beams, and Piccolo just doesn't have the energy to be surly about being scolded by a child for his lack of sensitivity.

* * *

The woman doesn't approach, but instead leans the armor against the curve of the wall nearest the threshold, gesturing curtly to it in lieu of verbal acknowledgment of either himself or her offering. Afterward, she gives him her back and begins to walk right back out of the ship.

At first, he thinks she's really intending to leave without saying a single word to him, which the entire history of their interactions before this moment has led him to believe was _impossible_, that she was in fact _physically incapable_ of holding her tongue for any length of time, especially when it would most behoove her to do so. At the last possible moment, however, as she's crossing the threshold of the room to leave him, she slows to a stop, pausing briefly before she half-turns back, the fingers of her left hand clutched anxiously over the elbow of her right arm. Still, she doesn't hesitate to meet his eyes, and her gaze is steady.

And this is...significant, somehow, now more than ever, though he can't for the life of him place the why of it.

"We're, um...we're having a little celebratory cookout get-together type-thing after the wishing's all done tomorrow, if you're interested. I know you'd probably rather be roasted slowly over a spit than caught dead at a social event, but the operative word here is 'cookout,' Vegeta. As in, food. Lots of it. You should...stop by." The professional solemnity of her demeanor is new to him. Where has her ferocity fled? "Most of the rest of the gang will be here, too, except—" Her speech chokes to a halt.

"Except your dead companions?" He fills in for her, brightening at the opportunity to torment her.

"Except my _temporarily_ dead companions, yes. Two of whom you'll be seeing again tomorrow." She reminds him, looking like she's gearing up for a fight. But she appears to think better of it and instead turns off in a huff, throwing over her shoulder as she goes that he can show or not show, and that either way she 'could care the hell less.'

Yet again, she leaves him blinking stupidly in her wake, mystified, wondering what's provoked this sudden change in her behavior and hoping like hell she'll have reclaimed her antipathy when the time comes for him to end her. Tomorrow.

For all the myriad indignities he's been made to endure in Bulma's company, he would see her dead, but not diminished. He would see her meet her end with the same reckless defiance she brings to bear against him every time they cross paths. And he would see her accorded an honorable death, quick, painless, if for no other reason than to at last exhibit his appreciation for her forbearing hospitality.

As she has taken great pains to communicate, the woman _has_ been generous, and the last thing he wants is to appear ungrateful.

* * *

*esper- here used to denote an individual with ExtraSensory Perception of one variety or another

also. zeeun's an actual character in the anime, and you may view him (oh-so-briefly) in action in the lord slug feature, as one of said slug's hilariously expendable henchmen. the movies aren't canon, so's far as i'm concerned, the villains within them are fair game for borrowing as i need 'em elsewhere.

and. the official date of vejiitasei's destruction, according to The Internet, is the year 737, buuuuut, i've pushed that date back by a decade, so vegeta's fifteen instead of five when his homeworld goes boom. this way, zarbs n' veggie have several years to bond as teacher&pupil before their bromance goes the way of the dancing hamster gifs.

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**hplovecat**: HIGH FIVE TO YOU TOO, GLORIOUS MISSUS WITH FLATTERSTICKS. ILOVEYOU. i've aspired to write prose the way cummings wrote poetry (that is, with something of the same breathless-bouncy rhythm n' wonky-awesome formatting) for...always. can't even begin to shower you with enough virtual affection to express how school-girl-giddy your review made me. and i'm glad you're diggin' prince vegamite, the Spectacular Bastard. his progress will be _pain-staking_, but i've got big plans. for bulma, as well.

also! i can vouch for the sparkly-fabulousness of every anime/manga i've ever written for; even if you've no interest in _reading_ those fics, i definitely recommend every last one of 'em. THANKYOUTHANKYOU FOR THE PRAISE, M'DEAR. now, WRITE. DO IT. I BELIEVE IN YOUR BRAINS.

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next chapter: grand theft spaceship? finally? _please_?


	9. awkward-and-upsetting

by gamzee, it's been nearly _ONE YEAR _since i last updated?! how the fefeta did that even happen?!

(i'm hells of Stuck in the Home, chums. hussie has somehow infected me with some srsly inordinate juggalo hatelove.)

to those of you who're still around, i'm so sorry to keep you waiting, and i promise i'm still in this for the long haul. even if it's shaping up to be one seriously loooooooooong f*ckin' haul. although there's some good news: VEGETA FINALLY GETS HIS MOTHERF*CKIN' THEFT ON IN THIS CHAPTER ALL WITH THE SHIP OF SPACE N' SH*T. mIrAcLeS.

and lovelovelove, muchly of the love, much muchness, much muchly muchness of all of the love to my reviewers, spare though ye' may be. i cannot tell you how much your words help me stay motivated. :3

['disclaimers are brutal shit-ninjas with turds for nunchucks.' -roxy, hstuck]

* * *

**chapter nine**

Bulma watches her reflection in the vanity mirror as she runs a brush through her hair, brooding over its unmanageable length. Sulking, she wonders at the point of keeping it so long when there's no one around to appreciate it. Personally, she's always preferred it short, shoulder-length at most, and only ever bothered growing it out because Yamcha'd once professed a preference for longer hair.

_Yamcha_. She clutches the brush to her breast, where a wrenching pain twists through her like a knife. With a guilty grimace, Bulma acknowledges her dead boyfriend hasn't much entered her thoughts since she'd gotten back from Namek. It isn't that doesn't miss him anymore -she does, occasionally badly enough that she experiences actual physical discomfort, but the moments are fleeting, the occasions fewer and further between. At first she'd needed diligence to repress her grief, to blot out the all-too-vivid memory of watching him die before her very eyes, but these days, tuning out the heartache is no longer the chore it used to be.

She tries to tell herself this's only true because he's so soon to return, and probably also because the dragonballs've dulled and otherwise seriously distorted her appreciation for the finality of death, but a part of her reads these as the half-truths they are. Unsurprisingly, this is the same part of her that's recently uncovered an inappropriate..._awareness_ of a certain deadly alien hobo, and knows the root source of her distraction lies far afield of such flimsy rationalizations.

Which is more repugnant still, because she's been 'distracted' for _months_. Meaning Vegeta's sudden relocation to a decidedly raunchier corner of her headspace isn't nearly as sudden as it seems. She guesses this means that, on some level, she's always found him appealing, in a wicked-dangerous, allure-of-the-forbidden, purely carnal fantasy kinda way...though it'd been an easy enough thing to overlook when the first time she'd laid eyes on him was through a television screen, with the knowledge that he'd come to lay waste to her world and leave no survivors. The image of his face, scored by a tiny, twisted grin while his creepy, acid-brained monsters kamikazed her boyfriend, was one that was with her constantly on the flight to Namek, haunting her dreams, inhabiting her deepest fears as fevered visions of him finding and killing her without mercy or compunction. _On _Namek, the dreams had only gotten worse, and significantly so after she watched him -without the remove of the tv or Baba's crystal ball- put his arm through the guts of that once-gorgeous-turned-lizard-demon blue guy, then smilingly demand the dragonball Krillin'd gone through hell to retrieve.

Then, though he hadn't chosen it for himself, he came back to Earth. She learned, within the first half hour after the wish that brought her home, that Vegeta had fought with her friends against Freeza, that Vegeta had _died_, and that he had been inadvertently revived as a direct result of his defection from Freeza's army. Astonishing developments, certainly, yet then of more immediate importance was the matter of his apparent disinterest in sadistically murdering anyone in cold blood. He'd played it pretty fast and loose with the hurtful and horrible provocations, but otherwise made no real move to draw anyone into an actual altercation -until he creamed poor Gohan, at least, but that had been a blessedly brief (if admittedly emotionally harrowing) affair, over as quickly as it'd started. As far as Bulma could tell, even that had likely been more posturing than a real attempt on the kiddo's life.

With everything else happening at the time, this'd all just been noteworthy-weird in passing, and had paled in memory to the moment he unexpectedly spoke up and gave them the key to bringing Goku home. The solution was an obvious one, one she or Gohan or _someone_ would've worked out eventually, allowed the benefit of some space to process their loss. But, ulterior motives or not, one of the more recent villains to join the ranks of Goku's mortal enemies had still inexplicably _helped_, contributed something important and uplifting in an extremely bleak moment.

"Oh," she breathes, meeting her own eyes in the mirror. Epiphany flashes through her, offering the answer to an increasingly burning question -four months grasping vainly after any rational reason why Vegeta no longer inspired the same sort of paralyzing, mortal terror he used to, only to realize she's subconsciously known why all along. It's so obvious now; she's been here she doesn't know how many dozen times before, at the crossroads with one of Son-kun's endless supply of arch rivals, unknowingly beholden to the unintended transformation of vengeance-fueled foe to grumpy, begrudging friend.

Bulma acknowledges the possibility that she's calling this one prematurely -Vegeta's every bit the frustrated psychopath he's probably always been, and he's hardly 'friendly,' but then, she could say the same things of Piccolo, and she's more sure by the day that the Demon King's an ally for keeps. In any case, for someone with such a catastrophically bloody history, she decides that -all things considered- Ol' Veggie's actually been remarkably well-behaved. Destructive, petty, inexcusably rude, a volatile blend of demanding and vindictively impatient, and generally menacing, yeah, but he's somehow not quite the insatiably blood-thirsty caricature she'd imagined.

And maybe that doesn't count for much in the grander scheme of things, but she thinks it's probably significant all the same.

Anyway, here she sits, hours away from wishing back her best-friend-slash-ancient-legend-come-to-life, as yet unmurdered. For weeks and weeks, she and Vegeta've been flaying one another alive with words, and not once has he raised a hand to hurt her. He has raised his hands to do..._other_ _things_ to her, salacious-seeming things -_a warm-calloused thumb skimming up her wrist-_

The brush claps hard against the vanity, where she's just hurled it in frustration. She has got to _cool it_ with this Vegeta preoccupation. Everything's six damn degrees of the guy these days.

The intercom slices cleanly through her train of thought, making her start: "Bulma, sweetie, you've got a visitor!"

"Who is it?" She asks of her mom, mentally listing through everyone she knows who's still alive who might possibly've come to call. Her mother doesn't answer, which is irritating but by no means unprecedented, so she knows not to keep trying. Instead, she hastily tidies the devastation she'd just wrought, and pulls her hair back into an efficient ponytail as she flounces downstairs to greet her guest.

* * *

Puar raises a tentative paw in greeting where he hovers at the threshold between living room and kitchen, and Bulma finds herself shaken by the shock of her inattention.

"Goodness, Puar; it's so good to see you." On saying it, she finds she absolutely means it. The shape-shifter ducks his furry head, eyes watering, and makes a bee-line for Bulma's neck. She feels the soft length of his tail winding familiarly along the nape of her neck, and quietly smoothes the fur at her friend's back.

"Oh, Bulma, I've missed you!" Then, hysterically, "And poor, poor Yamcha!"

"Shush, shush," Bulma soothes, "he'll be back before we know it. And today Son-kun and Krillin're coming home!" The need to divert the sudden attack of guilt rushes through her. "Dunno if you were just stopping by for the wishing, but if you'd like to stay, I could sure use the non-parental company." Bitterly reflecting on Vegeta, she adds -with a definite sour note to her tone, "Or the _friendly _non-parental company, I should say..."

Warmth swims in the feline's still-wet eyes.

"I'd love to stay!" Relief washes through her.

"Great! I was actually just about to head out to the kitchens to see if I couldn't help mom and Chi-Chi start setting things up for the party later; what say we set you up in Yamcha's old room and then go together?"

"Sounds delightful!" She smiles fondly and leads off, finding it easier to break the unavoidable Bad News to her old friend when she doesn't have to look him in the eye. Really, though, she doesn't know why she's so uneasy. In the ten-some years they've been a couple, the level-headed one between Bulma and Yamcha has always been Puar. Puar will understand, and even if he doesn't take her side (though she can't remember the last time he didn't, the sensible darling), he'll see why she had to do what she'd done...hopefully.

"So, uh," she clears her throat, "don't freak out or anything, because everything's totally under control, but I figure I should probably warn you to look out for—"

"AHHH!" Puar suddenly shrieks, and Bulma casts an automatic glare over her shoulder at what can only be her very own live-in Saiyan, currently rudely baring his canines at her long-time friend. In the seconds that follow, a quaking bundle of fur tucks itself against her in a dread-fright, and Vegeta, seeing Puar's slipped his threat display, turns it happily on her. She rolls her eyes and directs her words at the cat glued to her stomach.

"Like I was saying, you should probably watch out for Vegeta, Prince of eating all our food and bitching all the time." To soften the impact of her less-than-flattering introduction, she sticks her tongue out at the alien bully, and Vegeta's fierce expression tips up in lethal amusement. Her stomach lurches sharply, and she tells herself to stop it, that they make special-horrible HFILs for girls who crush on their boyfriend's murderers.

Sensing that he's gearing up for a retort, she turns up her nose and leaves the room, Puar clinging and terrified at her elbow all the while. She feels his gaze on her back all the way up the stairs, and does everything in her power to ignore the ever-loving hell out of it.

* * *

When they reach her room, Puar unfurls himself and floats to the terrace doors, setting his furry paws dramatically against the pane overlooking the lawn.

"Bulma, what on earth are you thinking? He killed Yamcha!"

"Hey now, don't go pointing fingers at me; Goku's the one who decided Prince Jerkface deserved a second chance. Even if I disagree, what'm I supposed to do about it?"

"I hardly know, but offering him a place to live doesn't seem like it should've made the list!"

"This isn't exactly easy for me either, Puar, knowing the horrible things he's done –the horrible things he _still plans _to do, but I think the safest option for everyone is to keep him close. Maybe he'll never warm up to us, but maybe our hospitality'll at least make him think twice before he tries to blow the planet to smithereens. And if not, at least in the meantime he's not out doing...y'know, whatever it is alien gangsters do in their spare time. It's not ideal, I know. But for now, I really think this's for the best." He looks a long way from convinced, but defers nevertheless to her judgment. She breathes a soft sigh of relief.

"If you say so..." The shape-shifter arcs around to look at her. "Still, this doesn't...feel right."

"Preachin' to the choir here."

"And Bulma," Puar starts again, hesitantly, "what -what happens when Yamcha comes back?" She knows precisely what he's asking: how is she planning to tell Yamcha she's sheltering the guy who _killed him_ under her roof? The thing is, the answer to this already-uncomfortable question has recently become...complicated. "How can you even bear to have him here?" Phantom heat shivers across her jaw, a lingering reminder of Vegeta's breath on her skin, and invisible evidence of her body's (totally involuntary!) response to his sinister insinuation: "_Just what 'game' do you imagine we're playing?" _

In the hangover confusion of this wanton flash of memory, she finds she has no answer.

Puar continues, "And how could Yamcha possibly be expected to live here while _he's_ around?" She realizes that Puar's not provoking her intentionally, that he's just concerned for his best friend, but this compassionate understanding is meaningless in the face of her unexpected touchiness on this particular subject.

"Are we even _together_, Puar? We were fighting before this Saiyan business happened, and I'm not obligated to forgive him just because he went and got himself killed!" She feels immediately bad for saying it; it's true, Yamcha'd been dating around in the 'off' portion of their on-and-off relationship before the Saiyans had shown up, and they _had _been at odds over it, but hadn't she resolved a hundred-hundred times since he'd died that she'd let it all go, allow them a chance to start fresh? When had that iron-clad resolve melted away?

She feels edgy at the notion that she'd only started to rethink her position after she'd gotten back from Namek...which, as it happens, coincides with the arrival of-of _NO ONE_, because that's as far as she lets that line of thought go.

Running a hand through her hair, already regretting her spaz attack, "I'm sorry. I...that's not what I mean. You know I love him, Puar, and I miss him like crazy, but we've got a _lot_ to figure out after he's home. Evil marauding space aliens or no." Puar settles a reassuring paw on her shoulder.

"You're right, of course. I'm sorry for jumping on you right after I got here..."

And, because she has no filter, she replies: "No, believe me. I need all the tough love I can get when it comes to Vegeta." Puar gives her a very strange look, a vaguely suspicious widening of the eyes and mouth, and she clears her throat. "Anyway, there might not even _be_ an issue -I still have no idea what Vegeta intends to do after Son-kun's wished back. But if he launches into full-out Battle Mode on _my property_, assuming he survives his beatdown, you can rest assured I'll be handing him his ass and his walking papers when Goku's finished with him."

"Well, that's...something." The shape-shifter acknowledges, still obviously concerned.

Desperately seeking deflection, "Should we adjourn? Mom n' Chi Chi've been goin' at it non-stop for the past couple days, and we're comin' up on Zero Hour as we speak, so they could probably use a spare hand or four." She knows Puar knows she's deliberately avoiding the gigantic, belligerent, Saiyan Prince-shaped elephant in the room, but she knows Puar _also _knows not to press her when she's so obviously not willing to discuss the matter. Plus, her mom and Chi Chi really _could_ use all the help they can get; the Namekians've been up to some kinda 'traditional spiritual cleansing ritual' all morning, but they'd promised to be finished by noon -which is in roughly an hour. After that, they'll all either have a big, bitchin' feast, courtesy of the two best cooks she's ever known, or they'll all be up to their necks in the proverbial creek full of shit sans rowing apparatus, courtesy of her aforementioned metaphorical elephant. And Epic Showdown for Earth or not, actually, Son-kun's bound to be _starving_, so they're gonna need as much food as possible immediately on-hand for him to funnel down his throat.

"Alright," he acquiesces, "but Bulma-"

With resignation, "Yeah, I know, Puar. Just, let's put a pin in it for now; there'll be plenty of time for awkward-and-upsetting conversations after Son-kun's home." He lets it rest, as she'd expected he would, but she knows this discussion's far from over.

* * *

Summoning Porunga is an occasion of great consequence for the Namekians. There's a gravitas among them, a grave appreciation for the incredible power the dragonballs command that's absent entirely in the way Goku and his moronic friends've always used the orbs. Gohan's insisted that they, too, have their own traditions: Goku'd shared stories about his shrieking mate's grand feasts on wishing days, and told the kid all about the large, festive parties the blue banshee and the turtle hermit've thrown, but he has to imagine those're probably more about celebrating the return of butchered loved ones than to pay any respect to the dragonballs or the wishing itself. But for Piccolo's people, this is a rare and sacred affair.

Yesterday, the runt explained that, on Namek, the dragonballs had only ever been used in times of great calamity or exigence, and even then only by unanimous consent of the Council of Elders, following what sounded to Piccolo like a metric fucking _ton _of pointless, public deliberation. Pointless, because even after this arduous process, the final say was in the hands of the Saichourou, who could arbitrarily overturn whatever decision had been painstakingly reached by the Elders.

Still, tedious and absurd as it all seems to him, the part of him that was once Nail rationalizes that this system was clearly designed to make it as difficult as possible to use the dragonballs, precisely because their power is so tremendous. The dragonballs can undo death, grant untold power, reorder time, or even remake the _very fabric of reality_. Anything capable of such feats should neither be taken lightly nor abused.

Personally, Piccolo thinks the very _existence_ of the dragonballs is one hilariously colossal '_fuck you_' to the gods and the natural order of the Universe, and that they practically _invite _abuse: of _course_ every self-serving bastard from every corner of every galaxy is going to seek them out in a bid for gain and glory. But, the Brain Parasite formerly known as Nail stubbornly insists, though the dragonballs may well inherently be seven shiny beacons perpetually beckoning evil hither, that is NOT why they were created.

_Why the fuck **were** they created, then_? He wonders irritatedly to himself, rolling his eyes when the residual Nail-bits predictably have no answer.

"For Peace," Muuri's voice spills out of the silence like a breaking tide, washing over the assembled and seeming at first to be directly responsive to Piccolo's unvoiced question. Inwardly fuming, deeply unhappy at the prospect of yet _another fucking relative rooting around in his brain-_"for Life," Muuri continues, and Piccolo realizes all of the Namekians have bowed their heads, and that they're quietly mouthing the words with their newly-appointed Saichourou-"for Balance." It's some kind of prayer, he realizes, some ritual chant of sacred purpose. The angry tension eases out of his shoulders, and he casts a sideways glance at his protege, whose head is likewise lowered out of respect for the ceremony, though he doesn't know the words to join them in their mantra, either.

Several days ago, when Muuri came to invite Gohan and himself to this very pre-wishing 'purification rite,' it had immediately shot to somewhere near the top of his very long list of Things He'd Intended to Avoid at All Costs, but the kid'd just as immediately promised they'd both be in attendance. And, because he's apparently completely incapable of denying his heir, here he now stands, in the Western quarter of the Briefs' terrarium, for what must be the seventh consecutive hour, bored out of his fucking skull.

They Namekians recount fond memories of their fallen bretheren (shockingly without anger toward or even mention of Prince Vegetable, who'd claimed the lives of those still lost), mourn and celebrate their previous Saichourou, meditate on the endless cycle of life and death and rebirth, memorialize the planet they'd tragically lost, and -the real meat of the ceremony- recite the storied history of the dragonballs: how they came to be; what means their very first Saichourou used to discover and tame Porunga, the Almighty Eternal Dragon; which wishes they had granted and which they'd denied; and who had been chosen to deliver the wishes to Porunga on behalf of them all.

Meanwhile, as the droning history lesson finally draws to a close, Muuri's voice can be heard again, and the hushed murmuring promptly quiets, "The Earthers have suffered through a terrible ordeal in the hopes of reviving their loved ones, and in the subsequent defense of our people, our planet, and ultimately, the entirety of the known Universe. For their bravery and selfless sacrifice, their profound compassion and hospitality, for the honesty and magnanimity of their wish to see their cherished nakama returned home, the council of Elders and I, myself, in my capacity as Saichourou, have unconditionally decided to make the Earthers' wishes a reality.

"For this task, by the will of the tribe, my son, Dende, whose bond with the Earthers runs deep and whose rapport with the Almighty Eternal Dragon is already established, has been selected to speak on behalf of our people and our new, dear friends." Piccolo's eyes ping to the runt, who -as ever- is right at Gohan's side (who is, in turn, right at _his_ side). Dende freezes in place, and his eyes are wide with bashful astonishment, and Piccolo can tell from the naked shock slapped across his face that this's no small honor bestowed at whim: it's _huge_. "Dende," Muuri's voice parts the small sea of Namekians neatly down the middle, as they all step to one side and turn back to look at the runt, who by now is purple as a turnip from all the attention suddenly directed at him, "will you accept this sacred duty?" The runt's too busy short-circuiting to respond, and Piccolo smirks unkindly as the part of him that was once (and still occasionally is) the Demon King imagines Dende turning down this 'sacred' honor and leaving them all sputtering in disbelief.

Instead, Gohan reaches out, curls his chubby child fingers around Dende's, and offers him an encouraging smile. The "_Yes_!" comes squeaking outta the runt almost immediately, and Piccolo angrily waylays the mushy rush of pride he feels before it has a chance to smear itself all over his face.

For the next several minutes, while his kin pass out congratulations to Dende and warm sentiments to one another like it's going out of style, Piccolo waits impatiently for this thing to be _fucking over already_, and resumes his sentinel's watch over Gohan and the runt.

/-/

* * *

The Namekians' pre-wishing ceremony moves and fascinates Gohan: he sees in its enactment a deep and abiding sense of community, of _family_, and an absolute, unbending respect for the awesome power of their legacy, the dragonballs. And of course he's thrilled when Dende's chosen to represent his people and make their wishes to Porunga.

But, as genuinely captivated as he is by the rites, he can't help but to constantly wish things would move along more quickly, because -after all- it's the only thing still standing in the way of bringing his dad home. Really, though he does feel guilty about it, at best he's only half paying to any given thing happening for the duration of the ritual, 'cause his thoughts keep straying back to his dad, who's _coming home today_.

_Today's_ _the day_ his family'll finally be reunited. And maybe this time they'll have longer together than the few weeks' worth of healing they'd shared before he flew off with Krillin and Miss Bulma to help revive Mr. Piccolo and the rest of his father's friends. In his mind, that time barely counted anyway, since he and his dad had both been mostly incapacitated for the entirety of those too-short weeks.

Now, with no new threat hanging over their heads, he and his dad'll be able to go running around together in the woods, like they'd done before that fateful day at Kame House, so long ago. Only now, he can help his dad hunt and fish, and keep up without needing to be carried or borne on Nimbus. They'll play with the woodland animals, and spar, and bathe in rivers and fall asleep under the stars and wake up and fly home and eat breakfast with Mom -he can imagine it all: the wind in his hair, the smell of trees and grass and berries and a hundred hundred creatures, the sound of his father's laughter, the wide, unstoppable smile on his mom's face-

"Kid." He snaps out of his reverie guiltily when the familiar weight of Mr. Piccolo's hand falls on his shoulder. He blinks up first at his sensei, and then back down at his surroundings. All around him, the Namekians are moving inward, embracing, solemnly touching foreheads, extending an arm to clasp, a hand to hold, until they're all physically connected to one another, all at once.

Dende appears between Mr. Piccolo and himself, offering his hands. He doesn't hesitate to take hold, and Mr. Piccolo sighs heavily, but follows suit soon after, and together they follow Dende through to the heart of this congregation, where the Namekians warmly welcome them. Gohan's expecting some cue that'll let him know what he's supposed to do next, but after several seconds of comfortable quiet, there's still nothing to indicate what he should be doing, until-

"Thank you, brothers." Muuri intones from somewhere in the midst of the crowd. The Namekians lift their hands and touch fingers to foreheads, making some sign or salute, and echo the Elder's gratitude. Afterward, as one, they begin pulling away from each other, and then laughter and chatter erupt from every direction, all solemnity evaporating. Dende, too, gently disengages, and beams up at him.

"Showtime, huh, runt?" Mr. Piccolo asks in his customarily gruff fashion.

"Yes, sir!" His friend answers.

"It's...over?" Gohan wonders aloud, a little stunned at how, er, unceremoniously the long ceremony had ended.

"Yep!" Dende affirms.

He almost can't believe it. It's time. _Right now_. In the short stretch it takes them all to make their way to Miss Bulma's front lawn and summon Porunga, he'll have his dad back. And Krillin, too. For a long moment, he just stands there, at a loss. He's waited four months for this, but now that it's actually happening, it barely feels _real_, it's all happening so _fast_-

"Hey." For the second time in probably as many minutes, his sensei jolts him back to the present when a clawed-and-banded hand reaches down to tousle his hair (which is going to make Mom unhappy, but he's got more important things on his mind). He peeks up at Mr. Piccolo through his mussed bangs, and smiles to find his mentor wearing one of the surliest expressions he's ever seen, though Mr. Piccolo's aura -a soft, shimmery green- reveals a familiar contradiction. Gohan sees relief, or awe, or perhaps even _joy_ in his teacher, though he doubts Mr. Piccolo would ever admit to as much. Still, the sight of it's enough to ground and steady him, to help him pull his head back onto his shoulders. "Let's go bring your old man home, kid."

Gohan doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs Dende's hand and shoots out of the terrarium at top speed, and his excitement's explosive, dizzying, exhilarating.

_I'm coming, dad!_

* * *

The word 'impossible' doesn't exist in Goku's vocabulary, and never has. Some things're just more difficult than others, 's all. Like figurin' out that when Chi Chi says she's "fine," she almost certainly means she's exactly the opposite of 'fine.' That'd taken him _years_ to finally put together. Learnin' how to use and master the Kaio-ken hadn't been easy, neither; he'd nearly burned himself up from the inside-out _hundreds_ of times. (It was a good thing he'd been dead at the time, actually, 'cause he can't imagine he'd've survived the trainin' otherwise.) He'd gotten the hang of it eventually, though, and now he can flash it on and off at will, without pain or injury, for pretty much as long as he needs.

So he _knows _masterin' Instant Transmission's only a matter of focus n' effort: he _can _do it, just...not yet. And probably not for months more, if he's bein' realistic. For one thing, 'folding space' ain't as easy as he'd hoped it might be; he's gotta learn a whole new way of thinkin' about matter and energy -which is actually the easier part of the deal, since he hasn't really thought about either one before. The difficult part's havin' to think of _himself_ in a new way, as an '_unfixed object_, _unbound by conventional spatio-temporal logics_,' which is a string of words Matcha n' Taro -his teachers- had somehow pieced together from his memories of Bulma and Dr. Briefs, thinkin' it'd help him better understand how to go about teleportin' himself to a specific location across crazy huge distances.

...his teachers thought wrong. If anything, he understands the process now less clearly than ever.

So, instead, his teachers have him workin' on a different task: meditation. They want him to concentrate on pickin' up ki from further n' further away, and to try n' force his mind's eye to see not _just_ the energy, but the entity the ki belongs to, too. That's how he'll know where to move, when the time comes. Finding and lockin' onto ki ain't the problem -he's been doin' that since before he knew that's what he was doin'. But _seein'_ his target's a real struggle, and 'pparently that's not a step he can just skip over, 'cause that's the step that'll give him his 'vector' -and if his vector's even slightly off or otherwise incomplete, he could end up trapped in the '_interstitial space_'he'd pinched together. And while he ain't super sure what the heck 'interstitial space' means, Matcha'd painted a pretty grisly psychic portrait of what'd probably happen to him if he got himself stuck inside it.

So far, he's built himself up to a point where he's capable of zeroin' in on Matcha and Taro from nearly halfway across Yardrat, but he still can't _see_ 'em yet. Not even from much closer. It's one more new skill he's gotta perfect before he can start doin' some actual transportalizin'.

Still, he _is_ makin' progress. Sloooow progress, which is frustratin', but he can feel himself inchin' closer to his goal every day. And, while he's painstakin'ly developin' all the different little pre-requisite techniques he needs to perform Instant Transmission, he's also -incidentally- teasin' out methods for gettin' a hold of his restless inner-Super Saiyan. Another couple months, and he thinks he'll prob'ly be ready to risk transforming again, for the first time since he crash-landed here. Then he can start trainin' again for _real_.

And it's all thanks to his awesome new friends. As spiritual teachers, the Yardrat-jin're second to none. Not even when he'd trained with Kami had he felt so totally spiritually secure. Realignin' his center'd barely took any time at all, and after he'd taken care of that, Taro n' Matcha n' Cacao n' Bpat started readily volunteering meditation techniques he'd never've thought up on his own, partly to help him rein in his unstable power, partly to help him learn Instant Transmission, but also partly just _because_. Add this to the fact that each n' every one of 'em's nearly as good at cooking as Chi Chi -although it's hard to compare, since none of the food here tastes anything like the grub back home- and he can't think of a better place to've been stranded.

Still, in spite of good company and great food, he does miss home. He _loves _his fightin' adventures and can't imagine that'll ever change, but...well, he loves his family, his friends, and Earth, too, and he'd always just sorta assumed he could have all those things all at the same time, _all_ the time. Fight super strong bad guys, save the world, hang with Bulma n' Krillin n' Yamcha n' Tien n' Chaotzu n' Master Roshi, and go home to Chi Chi and Gohan at the end of the day.

Thought of his son makes his chest squeeze tight, and he presses his fingers wonderin'ly against his breastbone, a grin quirkin' at his mouth. An image of Gohan flashes into his mind -the wide, dimpled smile, the graspin' fingers and wild hair Chi Chi's constantly fightin' to tame, the bright purity of his aura only now beginnin' to hint at the incredible power he'll one day command...

Breathin' deep, he follows where the meditation bids, to a thousand-million memories of Chi Chi, scoldin' him, smackin' him, threatenin' him with ladles, curlin' around him in the dead of night, the softness of her hair 'gainst his shoulder, the warmth of her breath against his skin, the tread of her dreams sad, anxious for his inevitable leavin'-

_**SON GOKU**_, a voice like a bolt o' thunder booms into his brain, joltin' him out of his trance n' nearly startlin' him sideways, **_YOU HAVE BEEN WISHED BACK TO EARTH. _**For a falterin' instant, he doesn't know _what_ to think about this announcement, 'til he remembers this's happened once before, a year after he'd died fightin' Radditz. He realizes he prob'ly should'a expected this...of _course_ his friends're tryin' to bring him back: they don't know he's still alive, that he's stayed gone by choice.

_Oi, Chi Chi's gonna be maaaaaad_...

Bracin' himself, "Ahhh, sorry," he says, out loud, not really sure if the Eternal Dragon can hear him but definitely sure he doesn't know how to have a conversation with his mind, "But I hafta stay here."

Awkward silence follows.

_**THIS IS...A REFUSAL?**_ The strained disbelief he hears makes Goku wonder how often the Eternal Dragon's been turned down. Maybe never? **_YOU ARE CERTAIN?_**

"Yep, 'fraid so. I can't leave just yet -I'm still trainin'!" He waits outta courtesy for the Dragon to answer, but when all he gets is a long stretch o' nothin', "Uhhh...hello?"

**_WHAT._**

"Ahh," he begins, oblivious entirely to any bounds he might be oversteppin', "if it ain't too much trouble, could'ja tell everyone I'll definitely be back, soon as I can?"

Immediately, in a voice like rocks rainin' down a mountain: **_I AM NO MEAN CREATURE TO ATTEND YOUR INSIGNIFICANT SOLICITATIONS, MORTAL. I AM THE ETERNAL AND ALL-POWERFUL-_**

"_Pleeeeease_?"

Finally, with a sigh like a spent hurricane, **_AS YOU WILL._**

"Wow, thanks!" He returns, though there ain't a reply at all this time 'round, so he knows the link's prob'ly been cut for good. Which is just as well, since now he's more determined than ever to learn this technique and get back home to his family.

_Wait up for me, guys._

* * *

Vegeta makes up his mind before the Earthers can even begin to decide what they mean to do with their wish: he's going to space.

If Kakarrot's going to spend the next who-knows-how-long out there learning some impossible new technique (and what the hell else could that mindless waste of skin possibly be up to?), he sure as hell isn't going to sit idly by, twiddling his thumbs on this insane fucking rock. He'll fall behind if he stays here, among this demented troupe of weakling fools.

He pushes away from the wall, gaze sweeping perfunctorily over the assembled idiots, lingering, for an instant, on Bulma's profile, aglow. This does nothing for him but to confirm the dire necessity of his leaving.

Then, without a second thought, he sprints for the ship, ready to be quit at last of this freakshow.

* * *

Finding out Son-kun's been alive and well this whole time turns out not to be such a happy twist, after all. Because wherever the hell he is out there, he's been staying on purpose. He _chose_ not to come home. And just now he'd chosen to _stay _who-knows-where to do who-knows-what for who-freaking-knows how much longer, with shit-all to say to any of them beyond a vague promise to be back 'as soon as possible.' Kami, why must all of her male friends be such perennial fucking _idiots_?!

Bulma's heart breaks all over again at the sight of Son-kun's wife and child, both of whom look devastated and uncomprehending in the wake of these shocking developments.

For her own part, she doesn't know what she's feeling more -hurt, betrayal, curiosity, resignation, anger, or soul-deep sadness. In fact, they all seem to be trapped in some sort of emotionally turbulent stupor, as no one's spoken a word in minutes. Even at the massive immortal dragon's exasperated prompting.

Ultimately, it's Muten Roshi who -in trademark style- breaks the tension by cracking wise about the 'legendary Super Saiyan's legendary fear of his wife,' thus restoring a semblance of levity and normalcy to this oppressively unhappy atmosphere.

Afterward, they turn to the matter of who they should bring back instead of Goku, and, following some supernatural hijinks, resolve that, in addition to Krillin, they'll be reviving Yamcha, too.

Which is great, obviously. More than great, actually. Fantastic! Extraordinary!

It's just...suddenly she's going to have to confront an extremely unpleasant interpersonal situation much earlier than planned. Her heart lurches, and her turmoil over Son-kun's apparent abandonment compounds. What's she going to _do_? Vegeta and Krillin probably won't be on _friendly_ terms, but at least they'll have some recent history as allies to fall back on. But...Vegeta and Yamcha, sharing the same airspace? When the last time they'd met Vegeta'd science-magicked some space monsters into existence to _murder_ Yamcha?

_This is going to be a** mess**-_

-is what she's thinking until she feels the tell-tale rumble of the earth under her feet, and hears the equally telling explosive burble of engines firing up, and realizes that the Prince is nowhere in sight and oh, that miserable-thieving-_jackass_-

And thus is her turmoil transfigured into volcanic fury, and her worries laid to rest, when Vegeta absconds with her spaceship.

...she supposes this means he's not coming to the barbecue, after all.

* * *

*the yardrat names, in case it wasn't clear, are all courtesy of goku, who's named them all after foods sharing the same color as their spots: taro=purple mottle, matcha=green spots, cacao=dark brown, bpat=reddish-brown (bpat is the korean word for 'red beans,' which are used in all kindsa korean and japanese desserts; weird texture, but super tasty!)

next chapter: krillin n' yamcha epilogue-ificate.

because.

BECAUSE.

we have OFFICIALLY REACHED THE END OF PART ONE YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

there'll be a couple of chapters following with ol' veggie in space, then goku's homecoming, and then, finally, like three years and way-too-f*ckin'-many-chapters after i initially promised -the (shitty!)TWIST.

haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarts


	10. e1: back to earth

holy sh*t on a sherpa. two updates in two months? WHAT SORCERY IS THIS.

this unprecedented productivity comes to you via the PEERLESS-SCRUMPTIABLE-TASTINESS of your friendly neighborhood GOD OF LAUNDRY BASKETS, whose endearing v/b noobthusiasm, it turns out, is hells of STD-ishly infectious. (the delicious praise definitely helped.) pulled me out of a bit of a writing slump, got me to revisit VA for the NINE THOUSANDTH time (_**still**_ love dat ish), and i've been churnin' sh*t out like nobody's business ever since. i even have a lot of the next chapter already (roughly) scribbled out! SPARTA MADNESS.

ilu, baskets.

['well, you know what they say: a cheerful rooster makes a great bacon disclaimer!' -ygogxtas]

* * *

**epilogue THE FIRST**

* * *

This is it.

The final draw.

The ultimate showdown.

Krillin's got his beetle-helmeted foe dead-to-rights for the first time since...er, actually, _this _is the first time he's had Torbie against the wall, in all the years he and the others've been waging this seemingly endless war. (The relative mechanics of time here has meant that the four months that slid by on Earth amounted to just shy of three and a half years in the Southern Galactic Quadrant of the afterlife.)

For the chosen few among the Southern Kai's eclectic troupe of -martyred or murdered- elite heroes, there are but two chief preoccupations: first, martial and spiritual training, toward the goal of besting the dearly departed champions from the remaining three Quadrants at some huge Other World boudakai, the details of which (for instance: exactly when and where it's supposed to happen) are all weirdly vague or otherwise indeterminate. Based on what he's learned from Papoi, Torbie, and Froug, though, the whole event seems to operate around a single premise: that the four Kai are petty, squabbling, immortal _children_ whose age-old rivalries have culminated in an irregularly-occurring, winner-takes-all martial arts tournament, in which each Quadrant's strongest warriors are collected and trained to fight on their Kai's behalf. The only real prizes to be had, as far as Krillin can tell, are bragging rights for however many centuries pass between competitions. Not that any of this seems to bother the fighters, who appear only too eager to run themselves into the ground for a shot at winning the championship. Krillin thinks Goku'd feel right at home here.

In their downtime, the Southern warriors are at liberty to pursue whatever hobbies suit them. For Papoi, this means basket-weaving, Ikebana,* cooking, and crocheting -which Krillin only finds odd because the man himself is a _giant_; how Papoi manages such delicate work without destroying all the materials is beyond him. For Froug, this means '_singing_' -if that _is_, in fact, what that horrible, high-pitched creaking for hours and hours on end is meant to be. For Caterpy, this largely means spending entire afternoons stuffing his worm face full of pastries nicked from Papoi and watching alien soap operas with South Kai. And for Torbie...for Torbie, this means proudly rolling excrement into massive, smoothly compacted balls of...er, excrement. '_Fiine aart,_' he calls it.

And then there's Go-Stop,** a card game so addictive that Krillin and the Southern senshi have been playing it almost non-stop since he'd introduced them to it some three-ish years prior. It had somehow simultaneously strengthened the bonds between the previously aloof or otherwise distant warriors and also set them perpetually at each other's throats. Yet still, this divisive contest has become a thing to live for. ('Live for' being of course used only in the loosest sense.)

...even though Krillin hasn't managed to win even _one freaking match_ against Torbie. For a game that relies so heavily on chance, Krillin's record (where Torbie's concerned) is actually kinda miraculous. (Miraculously _abysmal_, that is, but he likes to focus on the positive.)

Which makes this triumphal moment all the more gratifying. He's seconds away from flipping his final card and letting fly one truly extraordinary "_Oh-gwaaaaang!_",*** because at long, long, _long_ last, victory is _finally **his**_, and he's gonna rub this in Torbie's smug-taciturn bug face for however much longer he's here-

"_Yaah_, Eeearth-woorm," Torbie says suddenly in that strange, warbly-resonant voice of his, employing the half-affectionate, half-condescending nickname he'd pinned on Krillin a couple years back, when they'd arranged a friendly sparring match that'd ended with him squirming around in the dirt in agony, '_liike aa gruub oon iits wriggliing daay_,' according to Torbie, who's definitely in a better position to judge what that might look like. It hadn't been a comparison the monk'd appreciated, but it stuck, and now here they are, locked again in this dramatic contest of wills, two slaps away from Torbie's inevitable, devastating defeat -which the red-banded bug warrior is now clearly trying to delay. "II beelieeeve yoouu aare beeeing coolleected." Krillin blinks with narrowed eyes across at his opponent, suspicious. Is this a feint? Surely his slick-carapaced frenemy isn't about to pull a fast one...

At length, deciding he's spent _waaay_ too much time with Froug (the shameless, sticky-fingered cheat), he follows Torbie's line of sight back, over his own shoulder, and spots the unmistakable pink visage of the Southern Kai, just as unmistakably on purposeful approach. The very same Kai who had, only days ago, warned him that his time in the Eastern Quadrant would shortly be coming to an end, and to make ready for his departure the next time they met.

Which apparently means now. On the cusp of his long-sought, hard-won victory.

He whirls back to their playing mat, laid out on the always-cool, soft, orange grass, and immediately detects the sly glint in Torbie's shiny beetle gaze.

"Ooooh, no you _don't_-" He begins, reaching for Torbie's remaining cards with blazing, single-minded purpose; if his foe won't slap out his last futile hand on his own, Krillin will damn well _do it for him_; no way he's about to let this injustice, this _atrocity_ happen, not when he's _so. **close**_!

Torbie's mouth cuts up at the corners, and the overgrown bug doesn't move a muscle to try and stop him. Then a shadow falls across the mat, stretching up and up and up, and Krillin knows true dread.

"LEETTLE EARTH-WORM!" Comes the heavily-accented, deafening voice of a blue-skinned, chef-be-hatted titan, from somewhere directly behind him. Apparently he's accompanying South Kai, probably to say goodbye. Somehow, impossibly, Krillin hadn't seen him coming, even though Papoi's a full _Piccolo _taller than his obnoxious catfish master. But that's a (baffling) oversight he can berate himself for later, because he knows he's now got precious few seconds to end this game before-!

-**nnnnooooOOOOO**!-

"SO MUCH I AM TO BE MEESSING YOU, PUNY BALD MAN!" Predictably, Krillin feels himself lifted from his seated position on the ground, and automatically braces himself for the breath-stealing, bone-crushing affections he knows are coming. And come they do; Papoi squeezes 'til he thinks he's about to pop out of his skin and go shooting across the plain like a sloppy-soupy bullet (and _wow_, but that's morbid image), and then starts nuzzling his enormous blue cheek against Krillin's _entire torso_. "WE WILL TO MEETING AGAIN. IS PROMISE."

In the midst of this (physically) painful farewell, Krillin makes tragic, dejected faces down at Torbie, who is, even as he watches, packing away the colorful little cards into the tiny plastic box from whence they came, cheerful as you please. Distraught but resigned, he manages the strength to lift one hand and lightly pat his large friend on the back of one of the gigantic palms currently constricting his airflow.

"I'll miss you too, big guy." He promises, gasping. Touched, Papoi erupts into an incoherent wail, in the midst of which he does at least manage to blubber out paraphrased words of parting from both Caterpy and Froug, neither of whom are personally available to deliver their own farewells on account of being presently busy tearing each other to pieces in the arena.

When the yet-sobbing Papoi finally releases him, Krillin hunches over, plants his hands on his knees, and gratefully sucks in a huge breath of air. Which is naturally when Torbie chooses to clap him on the back, _hard_. That huge intake comes choking right back out of him. The sadistic bug chortles, in that odd, clicking way of his.

"_Yaah, youu wiill beee miissed._" He says, thin, brown fingers unfurling before Krillin's face to reveal the tiny pack of Go-Stop cards that'd launched the whole group's antagonistic-yet-functional friendship. When he finally stops coughing and wheezing, the monk shakes his head with a wry smile.

"Keep 'em." He sighs, thinking one last time, wistfully, on the Victory that So Very Nearly Was... "You're gonna need 'em to stay sharp for next time." Torbie smiles back, a real, open smile, and offers his forearm by way of saying goodbye. Krillin gladly reciprocates, reaching out with his own forearm and grasping the other warrior at the elbow. He vows he'll be back to finish their match properly, the next time he bites the big one -though, he confesses, he's kinda hoping 'next time' won't be for a loooooong while yet.

Then, he turns his attentions at last to his gracious -if occasionally insufferable- host, the Southern Kai, who nods at him knowingly with his hands held behind his back.

As if on cue-

_**KRILLIN**_, a voice sounds in his mind, reminiscent in volume (and pants-shitting terror value) to Earth's moon, suddenly exploding over Kami's lookout, **_YOU HAVE BEEN WISHED BACK TO EARTH_**.

_Porunga_, Krillin identifies to himself.

Sparing a final glance at Papoi and Torbie, realizing abruptly how much he's really going to miss these strange characters, he comforts himself with the thought that he's about to be home, on Earth, where he belongs, among all the people he loves and misses dearly. And, what's more, he'll finally be able to warn them about Freeza, and maybe together they'll be able to figure out a way to avoid disaster.

"I'm ready." He says.

Several things happen all at once. There's a blinding flash, an instant of dizzy disorientation, and then Krillin finds himself staring up into the great toothy grin of Enma Dai-o, over-glorified Deity of Red Tape.

"HELLO AGAIN, MONK." Krillin squirms, fidgets with his collar, less flattered than he is mortally terrified that Enma-sama remembers him. It can't bode well. "LET BYGONES BE BYGONES, I ALWAYS SAY." The god laugh-roars, responding to Krillin's unvoiced trepidation. Then, cracking enormous knuckles over his omni-present ledger- "NOW, DON'T YOU WORRY YOU YOUR SHINY LITTLE HEAD; THIS'LL JUST TAKE A MOMENT." -he grabs his massive quill pen, gingerly dabs it into his magical inkwell, and elegantly scritches something onto the page laid open before him.

And Krillin abruptly remembers, in a blind panic, that casual, cryptic aside South Kai made when they first met: _"Assuming you remember any of this, of course. I suppose there's a chance you'll be wiped when they wish your soul over to Earth's check-in station." _

"**WAIT**!" He cries, but he can already see by the god's smarmy expression that it's too late.

At precisely the instant he realizes the futility of begging, something in his mind -**_bends_**, wrenches, snaps, sundering cleanly-

-and then—

And then he's on Bulma's front lawn, where friends old and new are gathered, partially silhouetted in the coruscating light of the dragonballs, while he stands numbly gaping, flummoxed by the dreadful, clawing certainty he's just forgotten something of vital importance, and not one clue what it could possibly be. It takes him a grasping, disoriented moment to fully appreciate what's happening -he's alive, he's at Capsule Corp, and he's...wearing the same armor he'd died in? Hadn't he just been wearing his old gi...? Why, he wonders, does he feel like it's been _years_ since he's seen any of cherished faces, when it can't have been more than a couple of months? And why, _why _does he have the insane notion that he's intimately familiar with the mechanics of rolling perfectly-rounded shit spheres? Or that he's heard singing worse than Oolong and Bulma's _combined_?

"Uhhhh." Is what he opens with.

"_Krillin_!" Before he knows it, he's being mercilessly hug-mauled by Gohan and Dende (which gives him the _weirdest_ sense of deja vu), while the rest of his friends -his _family_- stand around him, welcoming him back with warm smiles and eyes wet with joyful tears. Feeling as though he's wakening from some dream, in which half-remembered specters beckon, shrouded in a delirious haze, and some crucial knowledge lies hidden, elusive, just beyond his grasp; he thinks he might be able to tease the memory outta hiding if he's quick, if he only reaches out and- "We've missed you so much!" Gohan sing-songs as he and Dende grab either of his hands and begin twirling him around in dizzying circles. "I'm so happy you're back!" The smoky veil darkens, and the hazy visions slip away like wraiths, irretrievable.

But by this point, he's laughing too hard to notice.

* * *

It's gone, all of it, in an instant, washed away: the trauma of his violent death; the maddening, endless trek to reach King Kai's planet; the rigorous, exhausting training; the crushing, anxious emotional chore of coming to grips with the reality that, with Earth's god dead and the dragonballs outta the picture, he and the others might never make it back home; the guilty desperation, the frustrated helplessness of being cut off from and totally unable to affect the outcome of his friends' stupid-crazy-dangerous journey to Namek; the existentially terrifying experience of being ripped out of the afterlife, revived, and then rudely dropped _head-freakin'-first_ into a shallow depression _just_ full enough with water that he manages not to snap his neck and end up right back where he started...

All of it, forgotten when he sees her, her smile broadening until it overtakes her whole face. With perfect clarity, there's only one thought that registers: he's _home_.

"_Yamcha_!" Bulma cries, slamming into him, arms clinging, grasping, pulling him into an embrace that might'a left a weaker man struggling to breathe.

"Hey, babe." He sinks into the moment, breathing her in, nearly overcome by the simple, ordinary wonder of it all.

"Welcome home," her voice catches on a similar upswell of emotion, and he holds her all the tighter.

* * *

*ikebana: the japanese art of arranging flowers

**go-stop/hwatu: a super-fun, fast-paced korean card game, involving lots of card slapping and shouting (playing for cash is pretty much the norm)

***oh-gwang: literally 'five bright;' it's a high-point hand, albeit a rare one (in my experience); krillin could definitely've won with this combo

ALSO. torbie, caterpy, papoi, and froug are all actually south kai's champions. we meet all of them briefly at the Other World boudakai goku participates in/wins right before the buu saga kicks off.

/-/

next chapter: EPILOGUE, PART II! piccolo frets over gohan, worried he's developing abandonment issues, while vegeta flies around in space and finds himself both Hot and Bothered by naughty-bulma-thoughts. teehee.


	11. e2: an unsanctioned breach

ANOTHER UPDATE WHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT.

ALSO: _revieeeeeeeeeeeew_! i crave your tasty-praise-words.

[DISCLAIMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!]

* * *

**epilogue THE SECOND**

* * *

Vegeta shrugs out of his armor, catching it easily under the shoulder strap with a finger as he approaches the nav-con, and keys in the command to check his flight progress -now a matter of rote, following every meal and training session. It's a compulsion borne of something dangerously akin to awe, because somehow, between each four or five hour interval he spends training or sleeping or eating, he tears through _whole sectors_ of space, two or three planetary systems large -and sometimes even more than that, if he doesn't run afoul of any of the myriad forms of interstellar turbulence.

A week into his trip, and he's already deep into Cold Space, closing in even now on his destination, Ohmi-sei*, a desolate, raging giant of an exoplanet locked in a binary system along the Northern perimeter of the Empire.

Ohmi's vast astronomical distance from the star that shares its orbit, and its relative proximity to a handful of smaller -yet gravitationally-compelling- neighboring planets has pushed the massive celestial body into an eccentric orbital pattern. As a result, Ohmi's atmospherics are unpredictable at best, and sometimes outright lethal, especially to life-forms of the carbon-based variety. Consequently, sustaining any manner of permanent settlement on the planet is impossible for all but the most adaptable or extremophilic species, and even _they_ undertake great risk lingering on the planet for the weeks leading up to and immediately following the twice-a-turn 'seasonal shift,' when anything top-side is subjected to a relentless onslaught of cataclysmically violent and variable weather phenomena. This, on top of the always-imminent threat of gamma-radiation death from a star on the verge of supernova collapse a few systems over, and it's little wonder that Ohmi functions less as a homeworld for any single species than it does as an emergency Imperial outpost, a last-ditch way-station for soldiers of the Emporium, in desperate need of fuel or supplies or medical attention on their way to or from purging missions at the Northern limits of Freeza's realm. (Or, Vegeta reminds himself with a moment's measure of indulgent schadenfreude, what _used to be_ Freeza's realm.)

Apart from the obvious advantages afforded an outlaw guilty of treason against one of Cold's brats on such a sequestered planet -the unlikeliness that anyone much beyond the neutral-minded skeleton staff manning the base will even _be_ there chief among them, Ohmi is also the closest official relay point to the space Namek once occupied. Further, the outpost will (probably) have all the latest scouting reports for the sector (assuming there _are_ still scouting reports coming in, and that Freeza's sizable portion of the Empire hasn't instead begun its inevitable implosion), detailing which planets are known to contain sentient species, which are not, which planets have the potential for terraforming or occupation, which've been marked for clearing, etc, making it the ideal place to start his search for Kakarrot.

Eyeing the data on the console, seeing that he's put yet another entire solar system behind him in the time that'd elapsed since his last check-in (just under five hours, according to the chronometer at the upper-left margin of the screen), he gives a small, disbelieving shake of the head -another compulsive habit he's recently picked up- and closes the read-out.

This trip, which would've taken months in the fastest, most advanced craft the Emporium has to offer, has instead taken him _days_. Even with his inherited disdain for the sciences, and a lifetime of cultivated indifference toward the manifold 'marvels' of technology, Vegeta would have to be in possession of willful, Nappa-grade ignorance not to recognize the galactic enormity of this feat.

Isolated as they are on Chikyuu, the woman and her father would have no way of knowing that this machine's space-flight capabilities -and their capsule technology, which he can't help but assume operates in wholesale defiance of the more fundamental precepts upon which scientific reality is predicated; and their gravity technology, which the woman's father allegedly dreamed up and then brought to life in a matter of _weeks_- have no equal he knows of in all the nine galaxies. It strains one's capacity for belief, that so appallingly moronic a species could have spawned such prodigious ingenuity.

_And there's something else, isn't there? _He remembers, holding the armor out for his inspection.

The material is -_different_; the weight of it's all wrong, and it's too thin and too clingy. It doesn't feel _solid_ enough to bear the brunt of any blow -let alone a ki blast- delivered by the level of opponent he's now in a league to challenge. Also, it chafes in places, and it's constantly pinching at the base of his spine, where it habitually rides over the stump -_all that remains_- of his tail, which he considers an infuriating, unforgivable oversight on Bulma's part; if she'd been paying any gods-be-damned attention to the measurements of the original piece, this wouldn't have happened. (Unless she _had_ been paying attention, and the design flaw's intentional. The spiteful little female has certainly demonstrated herself both capable of and willing to exact petty vengeance.)

Grievances aside, however, he's forced to acknowledge that the woman had, in just a few, short days, actually engineered a respectable replication of the Imperial armor he'd been wearing when he was revived on Namek. And somehow, though it doesn't seem nearly substantial enough to manage it, the woman's armor has already proved itself remarkably durable. In the first place, it's clearly been optimized to accommodate the extreme gravitational forces under which he's training. Standard plate in the Emorium's manufactured to withstand a range of gravity stresses, but only up to around 20 G -and even that's a largely superfluous feature, since most species' gravitational tolerances (even among Freeza's Elite Guards) top out somewhere between 5-10 G. Where Imperial armor would almost certainly've been subject to stress fracturing and precipitate breakage under the constant, crushing pressure of one hundred times normal gravity, thus far the only damage Bulma's 'mock-up' has sustained has been some mild charring from the impact of countless self-inflicted ki blasts.

And that's the other thing, really; considering the deliberate abuse he's subjected the armor to over the past week (not the least of which includes an intensive, relentless ki training regimen) it's held up incredibly well, and -he concedes, unhappily- would likely hold up just as admirably in an actual combat scenario. Further, for all his irritation at the unfamiliar texturization of the thing, there's no denying that the armor's lighter composition makes it more flexible, enabling a greater and more facile range of motion. Overall, in spite of superficial deficiencies, Bulma's prototype is an astonishing product -not, of course, that he'd ever intimate as much to _her_.

Appraising the armor as he is, it's hard not to fixate on the Capsule Corporation logo, stamped unobtrusively in black where the left shoulder strap terminates at the chest plate. Precisely where the blood-red crest of the House of Vejiitasei had once been emblazoned onto his father's armor. Where he himself had all-too-recently been mortally wounded.

Without premeditation, face blank, he runs a gloved finger over the unremarkable little symbol, the modesty of its design belying the ostentatious derangement of the father-daughter pair it's meant to represent. Unbidden, he remembers the enraptured glide of Bulma's much more delicate fingers across the battle-riven landscape of his old armor, eyes bright and skin flush with a ravening exuberance for which -at the time- he could identify no point of origin, her lower lip drawn between her teeth_ just so_...

An unsettling sequitur compels him to wonder what that clever, reckless female on her quaint, ridiculous world might've meant for Vejiitasei if the Saiyan Empire were still intact, and he, yet Crown Prince or perhaps by now even King of so unstoppable and expansive a cosmic force -what lengths might he have gone, he wonders, to secure exclusive proprietary rights to such revolutionary technological effects? How might said effects have shaped his reign? One may well have wholly reconfigured the distribution of intergalactic power with unfettered access to the Briefs family.

The implacably obstinate President of Capsule Corporation would undoubtedly've constituted a formidable challenge in such an undertaking, he muses, mouth tipping up into a smirk in spite of himself. Her pacifistic Earther inclinations would have induced her to resist any and all attempts to treat with him, no matter how practicable or advantageous the proffered terms. Negotiations would, naturally, have entailed a protracted and fraught battle of wills, though he would just as certainly have overcome her intransigence and forced her capitulation -or her precious-pathetic planet would have paid the ultimate price. Regardless of the outcome, however, it would surely have been a worthwhile contest...

-_in an act of calculated terror, he breaches the walls of her inner-sanctum, while she -inconceivably- stands her ground as her lab devolves into screaming chaos all around her, castigating poison on her lips and savage, incendiary **violence **inscribed into her very being, and in a moment of dumb shock he forgets: the substance of his complaint, that the woman is no warrior and commands no ki, even **himself**, briefly, because for all that he wills otherwise she is striking, incandescent in her fury_-

Shaking his head to dispel the (irritatingly _prosaic_) reflection, he dismisses the episode outright; whatever discomfiting effect she'd had on him on Chikyuu, he's rid of her now, far removed from her too-incisive aspersions and her too-alarming habit of crawling under his skin and -once, _literally_- stealing into his mind -and not a moment too soon, it would seem.

He'd have preferred to end her on his way out, of course, as she has already shown herself to be a dangerous adversary, and he is duly wary of leaving such a loose end untended. She and her planet yet survive based purely on an economical decision: Chikyuu is Kakarrot's home port, and that sentimental fool is bound to return eventually; destroying that accursed planet might make it impossible for him to ever find the traitorous peasant, in the event that his current search ultimately proves fruitless.

Vegeta catches himself, replaying the 'already' in his mind. There's an underlying proposition there, he realizes, an insidious supposition that he'll have further dealings with Bulma in the future, perhaps even of a more lasting nature.

Scoffing, wanting nothing to do with such a preposterous notion, he uncurls his finger and lets the armor clatter noisily to the floor, sparing it no further thought as he moves to exit the room for a shower below deck.

* * *

Though they've never actually laid out a formal training schedule, Piccolo's grown accustomed enough to the near-daily, 'impromptu' appearances of his protege at Capsule Corp that it _feels_ like an unsanctioned breach of obligation when the kid fails to report in for a full_ week_. At first, he figures Gohan's probably just on some kinda scholastic lockdown, courtesy of an over-compensatory reaction by his mom to Goku's unexplained refusal to come back to Earth. His assumptions are ostensibly confirmed when, after the third day with no word, Piccolo goes to check in on the kid and finds him in his bedroom, at the desk nearest the room's only window, poring over some book or other, furiously jotting down notes as he goes. Had the boy's mother not been posted diligently at his side, fielding his questions and keeping him on task, Piccolo would've ducked in to try and coax Gohan into sneaking out for a sparring session.

It isn't until a few days later, when Dende -whose routine has also been disrupted by his Heir's truancy- sullenly asks if Gohan's upset, that it even occurs to Piccolo there might be some other explanation for the kid's extended absence.

That very afternoon, he sets out for the Sons' modest cottage, determined to get to the bottom of this, even if it means he has to pull a Demon King and abduct the kid all over again to spring him from his academic prison.

Instead, when Piccolo arrives, just as daylight's beginnin' to fade, he finds Gohan wanderin' the woods near his house, cutting an apparently aimless, meandering trail, head occasionally swivelling about as though searching for something. For the most part, though, the boy just stares vacantly forward, movements listless, almost insensible. Doesn't take a shrink to see there's definitely something more on his mind than his grueling study schedule. Brow furrowing -_kid's gettin' careless_- Piccolo decides Gohan needs a quick refresher on the importance of keeping his guard up at all times, since his enemies won't give two wet shits what manner o' emotional turmoil he's going through; they'll just fry him.

Piccolo doesn't bother to power up (the point's to snap his student out of his daze, not to accidentally incinerate the boy); he simply aims a two-fingered blast into the forest below. It's a thin, precision burst of ki concentrated exclusively on Gohan, a silent, lethal ribbon of energy that whispers neatly through the foliage and, to his pleasant surprise, fails to pierce through the flesh of his protege's shoulder, instead hitting the invisible contours of the kid's ki shield and fanning outward in a fine, gilded spray, wreathing Gohan's form in light for an instant before the threads of ki thin to nothing and vanish without a trace.

The Demon King smirks, impressed.

Suddenly, Gohan turns and stares straight up through the canopy, immediately honing in on his present location. Glad to discover the kid's not nearly as unaware as he'd seemed, Piccolo snaps his cape out behind him (less out of a sense for theater than for the practical purpose of making sure the expansive fabric doesn't fly up and smack him in the face), and drops out of the sky.

/-/

"Hey, Mr. Piccolo." Gohan says, and cheerfully enough at that. Briefly, he wonders if he isn't becoming as needlessly paranoid about the kid's emotional fortitude as the boy's dam.

"Runt's been worried." He announces tersely, covering for his own discomfort at the idea that he might have _anything_ in common with Goku's authoritarian taskmaster of a wife. (The irony that he himself yet aspires to the role of Supreme Authoritarian Taskmaster over all of Earth somehow escapes him.) Gohan pauses, mid-bow, and twists his head up, fixing his sensei with an unwavering stare that rips right through to the unspoken truth of the matter, which is that Piccolo himself has been every bit as much -or more- affected by his absence as Dende. The kid grins at whatever he perceives in his aura, though it's a shade or six shy of the huge, uninhibited smile he usually gets, and renews his sense of unease.

Gohan completes his respectful greeting and stoops to retrieve a basket filled with herbs and wildflowers from the forest floor -which Piccolo hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. _Who's the careless one now?_, chides an internal voice he ignores.

"I'm sorry I haven't been to visit this week. Mom says I have a lot of homework to catch up on, and she's needed me a lot around the house, too." His pupil brushes away stray dirt and pine needles clinging to the basket, and then sets off again, reaching up to catch the arm Piccolo automatically swings to one side as he falls into step beside the boy; the hand that grasps his own is too small to wrap comfortably around more than two of his fingers at a time, but the grip is firm, attesting to a self-awareness -and a power level- well beyond his years.

As they walk, Gohan regales him with the various alimentary properties of the various plants he's spent the afternoon collecting, sporadically breaking off his speech only long enough to snag another specimen, then picking it right back up again.

It's fully dark by the time they make it back to the path leading to the kid's house. It's the first time in somewhere close to a month that he's seen the night sky away from the light pollution of Capsule Corporation and the surrounding city. 'Course, there's still a shit-ton of moon debris up there (orbiting harmlessly around the earth instead of raining down upon it in an apocalyptic fire storm by Kami's will alone), preventing a complete, unobstructed view of space, but the stretch of stars above that _is_ visible is a sight to behold. Reminds him why he's (mostly) eager to be rid of the other Namekians -and, more importantly, rid of the fierce sense of responsibility he feels toward them, keeping him bound to the Briefs' compound in West City. He can't wait to return to the quiet freedom of the wilderness.

It isn't 'til they cross the line of trees delineating the forest from the clearing where the Sons' cottage is located that Piccolo realizes Gohan hasn't said anything for several minutes now. The silence is comfortable, albeit also...heavy.

Tentatively, and as discreetly as possible, he probes at the kid's mind, looking for hints that might reveal to him the source of his Heir's come-and-go melancholy. Predictably, Gohan detects the intrusion immediately, and startles slightly, glances up at him in mild surprise from beneath bangs gone half-wild again already, only a week after his mother had cut them short for Goku's homecoming.

_Goku's homecoming_.

Piccolo curses himself for a blind fool for missing the excruciatingly obvious -he'd seen hide-nor-hair of the kid for the better part of a week _not_ because of a more intensive study schedule, but because this week was meant to've been the first week he spent with his father after more than a year apart. Goku's supposed to be home, on Earth, with his family, because the fighting's over (at least for now), because he won the day and miraculously survived the destruction of Namek, because -though Piccolo's loathe to admit it- Earth is where that over-powerful idiot _belongs_. Looking down into his student's face, he acquires yet another reason to hate the boy's father, and blackly muses that that's just the cherry on the fuckin' cake.

Suddenly, "I'm okay, Mr. Piccolo." His expression is one of open skepticism. Gohan smiles warmly. "Really." And then, philosophically, "I love Daddy, no matter what. He's just got a different way of showing he cares than a lot of people -just like you." Piccolo arches a brow at this assessment. "I've been thinking a lot about it this week -about why Daddy wouldn't come home, and I...I keep remembering the way he looked on Namek, before we were all wished back to Earth. The way he _felt_. It was...it was all _wrong_." The kid's eyes are unfocused, distant, like he's working out a riddle in his head. "I know he must have a really good reason for staying away -that he _wouldn't_ stay away unless he...didn't have a choice, unless he's trying to protect us, unless he thought it wouldn't be safe-" Gohan's breath hitches, and fat tears shimmer at the corners of his eyes. Piccolo waits, resignedly, for the kid to dissolve into a blubbering mess.

But the anticipated fall-out never comes.

Holding fast to the taloned digits in his child-chubby palm, Gohan closes his eyes and breathes, establishing a deep, quiet rhythm that centers and calms him.

Finally, "I understand, Mr. Piccolo. And I'm okay, I promise. I'm just sad I can't see him is all." After a meditative pause, "Mom's sad, too." His Heir's eyes are on the cottage now, unbrooking resolve shifting the grief aside, and just like that, Piccolo divines the _real_ reason the kid hasn't come by for training: his dam. "I have to be here for Mom right now." Gohan says, and his tone indicates a statement of fact. He ain't askin' for permission. Piccolo grins, pleased.

"Yeah, yeah, I got'cha, kid." He gently pulls himself free of Gohan's grip and tousles the boy's hair as whips his cape out behind him and pivots coolly on his heel, brushing past and situating himself in a seated hover just beyond the tree line. His student stares after him. "Still, there's no excuse for shirking your training." He crosses his arms over his chest. "So, for the next few weeks, 'til you feel comfortable skippin' out again, I'll come to you and we can train out here instead, so you can stay close." Gohan silently nods his assent. "Tomorrow, dawn: meet me here." The kid nods again, more vigorously this time, a slow smile spreading across his mouth.

"You're staying the night?"

"Obviously." He says, sourly. Gohan's whole face lights up, and it looks like he's gearing up to say something obnoxiously sentimental, so Piccolo clips out an interjecting command- "Run along, kid. Your mom's waiting." -which, anyway, is true; even as he says it, Chi Chi appears at the front door, bathed in the light from the house, casting her inferior human sight as far into the darkness as it will go, searching for her son.

Obediently, Gohan's off in a flash, with naught but a huge grin and a parting wave -and the brief touch of his mind, leavened with gratitude and something..._else_, pure and profound and unequivocal. Something precious and unimaginable, for one such as he, former scourge of the Earth.

The Demon King feels humble, speechless awe.

* * *

*ohmi(ja) - a thick-pulpy, yummy-citrusy tea muy populario in korea...and possibly elsewhere, but i can only speak with any authority on its popularity in k-town.

ALSO, for those of you who've previously read and/or actually care about krillin's deadman-wonderland-adventure-times: i've stitched on a wee addendum to the last little bit of his Revival Story, for the sake of clarifying the whole 'memory wipe' thing, which i realize may've been a smidge confusing before...

/-/

next chapter: vegeta returns to his much-esteemed Kill Everything ways, bulma and yamcha get hot n' heavy, bulma and vegeta have kinky phone sex.


End file.
